


like fake royalty

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: Royal Jamilton AU [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr the trigger-happy puppy, Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Alexander Hamilton: Actual Disney Princess, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Architect Thomas Jefferson, Fluff, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Less "opposites attract" and more "two people from different sides of the asshole spectrum", M/M, Modern Royalty, Prince Alexander Hamilton, Thomas 'No Homo' Jefferson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 23:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11657226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Self-prompt: Royal!Hamilton/Jefferson, with Jefferson being Super Against royalty and Hamilton always going FIGHT ME and Jefferson at first finding it annoying but then endearing, and now Hamilton's trying to hide who he is because Jefferson Would Not Approve.When Thomas meets a short guy with shocking violet eyes, a wit sharper than a razor, and a mouth quicker than a terrier on cocaine, he quickly concludes that it's hate at first sight.And it is. Really, it is. Until it's not.(Alternatively: in which one of them is a prince but they're still both assholes.)





	like fake royalty

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean for this to turn out like 30k but then Alexander opened his mouth and oops
> 
> A shout-out to [allonsy_gabriel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel) for helping me with this one. You're amazing.

> _BREAKING NEWS: CROWN PRINCE RUMOURED GAY!_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

_[An excerpt from the leaked Laurens letter:]_

> _Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you. I shall only tell you that ’till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you. (...)_
> 
> _In drawing my picture, you will no doubt be civil to your friend; mind you do justice to the length of my nose and don’t forget, that I never spared you of pictures._

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas couldn’t believe this guy was for real.

He had been working on his latest project—a three-story house in the modern style, with touches of traditionalism in the upper floors, which Thomas had tried to tell his client was a _terrible_ idea, but he had refused to listen, and Thomas knew how to pick his battles—when a short guy with hair too white to be a natural shade barged into the coffee house, heading straight for the counter and rambling off an order long enough that the poor woman at the cash register had to ask him to repeat it twice.

His hair was messily tied up into a ponytail, resulting in him giving off the impression that he had just woken up and not quite been able to handle basic human functions such as brushing one’s hair or finding clothes that matched.

Despite being a day behind the deadline set to him by his client, Thomas couldn’t help glancing up every now and again to observe the platina guy. He was constantly scowling at something, be it his notebook or phone or even the menu at the café.

At one point, Platina Guy looked up at Thomas’ direction, and Thomas was met a pair of stunning violet eyes and a look sharp enough to cut through diamond. _Of course_ Thomas had that kind of luck. Why were the grumpy ones always breathtakingly handsome?

Daenerys grabbed and paid for his order, then marched over to the closest unoccupied table—which, by sheer coincidence, was located two tables away from Thomas’—and plopped his stuff onto the table, though he was far more careful with the laptop case be brought out next.

For the next fifteen minutes, all that was heard in the coffee house was a soft but rhythmic clicking of fingers breezing past each other, typing faster than Thomas had ever seen, which left two possibilities: either Dany had a mind full of ideas he couldn't wait to communicate with the outside world, or he was hyped up on nine espressos and four RedBulls, resisting sleep through sheer willpower.

“ _Fucking tax evaders._ Don't they fucking realize that taxes are a _crucial part_ of the stability of a country?”

(Then again, Thomas couldn't exclude ‘both’ being the answer.)

Thomas closed his laptop with a sigh, and, despite himself, approached Dany.

“What’s stepped on _your_ shoe?” Thomas asked casually, so as not to seem overly interested in the answer.

Dany scoffed. “None of your business,” he snapped in a distinctly British accent.

Well. Thomas hadn't expected that Dany would be an actual, _honest to God_ Brit.

“Come on,” Thomas coaxed. “You can tell me. It sure looks like you need to get something off your chest.”

“Why don't you go back to your laptop?” Dany gritted out. “I don't need your help, and I am not some pity case.”

 _“Fine,_ ” Thomas scoffed. “Be that way, _o Mother of Dragons_. I've only been trying to help. And for the record? Never thought of you as a pity case.” If that dickhead was set on biting the hand that was trying to feed him… well, it wasn't _Thomas’_ fault.

As Thomas had turned to leave, a most curious thing followed: as if Thomas’ taunt had been a catalyst, Dany opened his mouth and practically _vomited_ information, rambling on about his father and _expectations_ and politicians _and how dare they do that to him?_ There might have been something about a dog too, but Thomas tuned out the rest of the shorter guy's speech.

One thing Thomas had noticed, in the short span of time, was that Dany was a tiny ball of tightly compressed rage. On second thoughts, Thomas reflected, maybe Viserys was a more appropriate name. On the other hand, for all his apparent hand-gesturing and impassioned speeches, Malfoy somehow still didn’t give off the impression of being textbook crazy. If he _was_ dealing with a madman, at least it wasn't the run-of-the-mill lunatic but a full-on psychopath.

Thomas’ thoughts, as always, were remarkably positive.

Thomas waved a hand to cut Dany off. “As much as I love listening to your onslaught of words,” Thomas drawled, “it's polite to at least introduce yourself before you give someone your entire life story.”

“Alexander,” the blond guy blurted out immediately. Realizing his mouth had gone off without his notice, Alexander scowled, pausing for a moment before adding, “Hamilton.”

“Well, _Alexander Hamilton,_ ” Thomas leaned against the tabletop, before deciding he might as well sit down. “Where are you from? I mean, Britain, _obviously,_ what with your terrible accent—”

“My accent isn't _terrible,_ ” Alexander replied hotly, eyes flashing with anger. “Just because _you_ sound like a badly-directed Western movie doesn't mean we all ha—”

“You sound like the original cast for a Shakespearian play,” Thomas retorted. “Believe me, you couldn't sound any _more_ like posh British nobility if you _tried_.”

Thomas didn't expect the recoil that his remark brought on. Alexander looked like Thomas had physically slapped him.

“You were saying?” Alexander finally gathered his wits.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I wanted to know specifically what part of the Tea Islands you came from.”

The expression on Alexander's face couldn't be described as other than puzzled, as if it hadn't occurred to him that people actually wanted to know where he grew up. Or, more probable judging by his character, he simply couldn't fathom that Thomas didn’t miraculously know his entire life story upon meeting him. Alexander certainly seemed like the kind of person who would expect other people to just _know_ everything about him.

“Um, I'm from Oxfordshire,” Alexander said at length, sounding as if he had been trying to remember a fact he had glimpsed over for a test.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “No need to sound so unsure. Then again, I guess I shouldn't expect more from someone who still thinks the monarchy is an acceptable form of government,” he snorted in condensation.

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, are you dissing monarchy?” he asked sharply.

“You can bet your ass and that fancy laptop of yours I am,” Thomas grinned widely, his smile not unlike that of a shark.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “What has monarchy ever done to you?”

“Uh, _everything_?” Thomas replied with a rhetorical question of his own. “Let's see. A monarchy, no matter how you wrap it, is undemocratic. It promotes class privilege. Monarchs are born into their roles. This represents the feudal system where nobody could break free of the social class they were born into. Not everyone can be born or wed into a royal family, so there are only a limited few who can become ruling monarchs of a country. This can further push the idea that success can be achieved based only on your social class instead of your hard work and determination. We are supposed to be a society where it doesn’t matter where you’re born.”

“We both know that’s an idealistic lie,” Alexander scoffed. “Just look at you,” he gestured at Thomas. “You obviously have money, yet you don’t argue for total financial redistribution to benefit the working class.”

“That’s not the same,” Thomas sneered. “Besides, a monarch is expensive.”

“So is a president. Actually, when you factor in the costs of a presidential election every four years, plus the fact that the first year, the president does nothing but learn their job, and on the last year, all they do is campaign for reelection, that money is not spent on the president representing the country but on nothing. A monarch, however, doesn’t run for reelection, and they’ve been trained since birth for their role.”

“There’s not only one royal person in the royal family but like ten. They all sip taxpayers’ money. And _you_ wonder why we have tax evaders.”

“A monarchy is still cheaper than president, and excusing away tax evaders like that is shifting the blame unto the wrong group of people. America has tax evaders as well, but you don’t have a monarchy. So what’s _their_ excuse?” Alexander shot back. He didn’t give Thomas a chance to answer that, ploughing right on. “And there are several advantages to a monarchy, which far outweigh the drawbacks. For one, a monarch has more limited power to the head of state, which creates a balance of power. A monarch’s role in modern society is purely representative. Formally, they do have the right to exercise some form of power, but it would reflect very badly on them if they actually did that. The monarch is to be a figurehead, someone who symbolizes his or her sovereignty, while policies and laws actually come from the parliament. Furthermore, a monarch has been trained since birth to represent their country. A monarchy creates continuity; there is no question as to the succession order of the head of state, should one become incapacitated. Next, it allows the local culture, history, and tradition to be preserved,” Alexander spouted off, as though crossing items off a list, his words resembling bullets shot out of a gun rather than complete sentences.

Thomas leaned back, stapling his fingers together. He took advantage of the fact that Alexander took a deep breath, having run out of air, to interject, “How do you know so much about the monarchy?” he asked skeptically.

Alexander stilled. He looked down, his hands absentmindedly finding a pen to play with. “I did a project on the British royal family in school.” Not a complete lie, either.

Thomas’ snort indicated that he doubted that, but he didn’t press Alexander further, instead shifting the discussion back to the monarchy. “I’m so glad you brought up traditions,” he smirked. “Another disadvantage to monarchy is that it impedes progress, since a government that puts too much weight into traditions and customs is one that will find change difficult.”

“There is less corruption,” Alexander asserted confidently. “Succession in a monarchy happens upon death of the one in power or if he or she opts to abdicate. Because of this, duration of tenure can last for a very long time, which gives the reigning monarch no reason to be corrupt.”

Thomas’ smirk didn’t disappear; if anything, it widened. “You don’t even realize the holes in your own arguments, do you?” he asked rhetorically. “In case you haven’t noticed, not all monarchs have been competent. The monarch cannot be removed. Because it is a lifelong position, the king or queen cannot be removed no matter how unworthy or poor they are in performing their duties. Also, since the monarchy is passed on by blood rather than by votes or appointment, there can be instances when a child who is still unfit to rule will be put on the throne. This has already happened several times in history. George III of England and Charles XII of Sweden come to mind. Or the crown prince of our esteemed father country across the pond,” Thomas drawled. “ _Your_ country, you pretentious tea hogger.”

“I beg your pardon?” Alexander retorted sharply.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “We both know that the prince is incompetent. He has _zero_ interest in politics or the well-being of his own country. He has been involved in more scandals than I can count, including this latest one—what was it? Something about a boy toy?”

“Rumours,” Alexander said through gritted teeth.

“Ah, yes,” Thomas smirked. “Your crown prince is _rumoured_ to be gay.”

“Bisexual,” Alexander corrected with a scoff. “Not like it matters to May and her party of trained apes.”

Thomas raised his eyebrow again. “Socialist much?”

“Liberal, thank you very much,” Alexander replied. He leaned forward in his seat, as if by decreasing the space between himself and Thomas, he would be better able to sway Thomas. “One more thing about your argument. You say it like—”

“Your eyes, Alex,” Thomas interrupted him softly.

“It’s _Alexander,_ ” Alexander retorted. “What about my eyes?”

“Well, they’re very… violet,” Thomas said bluntly. “As far as I’m aware, that’s an incredibly rare gene. Recessive; all but extinct. I know one family that definitely does have them though. Have you considered that you—”

“I’m wearing contacts,” Alexander blurted out.

Thomas blinked, nonplussed. Alexander took the opportunity to deliver his final remark for now. “You say it like all presidents are competent. Look at your own history,” he gestured vaguely at the air, as if to indicate America as a whole.

“If this is about George W. Bush, I don’t want to hear it,” Thomas sniffed.

“Of course this is about George W. Bush!” Alexander burst out. “The man was incompetent, and ridiculous on top of it! He started a war for absolutely no valid reason—and if you say oil, I will actually break your nose,” he warned.

“You?” Thomas snorted. “You’re not tall enough.”

“You’ve sunk low enough for me to reach,” Alexander shot back.

A cough interrupted Alexander, and Thomas looked up to find a stern face staring at him, disapproval written all over the man's features.

Alexander likewise looked up and groaned. “Aaron, hello,” he tried to grin.

The towering man, Aaron, evidently wasn't impressed with Alexander's antics. He leveled the shorter man with a disappointed look. “Alexander. I've been looking for you,” Aaron said pointedly, voice implying far more than his words did.

“I left a note saying—” Alexander began.

“I noticed,” Aaron cut him off, sounding rather irate. “Alexander, do you realize the chaos you've caused? You left without so much as a say-so. I was _beside myself_ with worry. I couldn't eliminate the possibility that you had been taken against your will.”

“Wow,” Alexander chuckled. “I think this is the most I've ever heard you say.”

“ _Alexander,_ ” Aaron warned.

Thomas noticed that Aaron kept throwing surreptitious glances Thomas’ was every now and again.

Aaron turned to Thomas. “Who are you?” he asked. Thomas wouldn't describe his voice as harsh, but the lack of emotions unsettled him.

“Thomas Jefferson,” Thomas introduced himself, offering his hand for Aaron to shake. It wouldn’t do to alienate the man before he had a chance to talk to him, after all. Thomas liked to leave his options open.

“Charmed,” the man said, his voice indicating anything but. “Aaron Burr,” the man introduced himself. “I'm terribly sorry for whatever Alexander did. I try to be around him to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, but he sometimes slips out.” Thomas had the sinking feeling inkling that he was missing something vital in the exchange between Alexander and Aaron, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

“Are you his babysitter or something?” Thomas asked jokingly.

Alexander and Burr exchanged looks. “Something like that,” Alexander agreed. He turned to Burr. “Now that you know where I am, can you please leave? I was kind of in the middle of something.”

Burr heaved a sigh. “Alexander, in case you've forgotten, your father has tasked me with your well-being. I am not about to leave you alone to fend for yourself. You are incapable of making your own sandwiches,” he reminded, not unkindly.

Thomas smirked. “Somehow, I don't find that surprising in the least.”

“Hey!” Alexander spluttered indignantly.

Burr sighed again. He looked at the clock. “Alright, I can order something and sit in the corner. Just don't leave without me.”

Thomas and Alexander watched him retreat to the counter. “Are you always accompanied by babysitters?” Thomas couldn’t resist taunting.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “It's more common than you'd think,” he said vaguely, for once in relative agreement with Thomas.

“ _You can't drive,_ ” Burr interjected from across the room. “You need a permanent babysitter.”

Thomas scoffed. “With opinions as stupid as yours, you need more than that.”

“Oh really?” Alexander leaned forward, a clear challenge in his eyes.

“Really,” Thomas mocked, repeating the word exactly as Alexander had pronounced it, making Alexander’s eyes narrow. “Anyone who prefers a king over a president—”

“Or a queen,” Alexander added, watching as, in the corner of his eyes, Burr stiffened at Thomas’ offhanded comment. “Let’s not be sexist.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Or a queen,” he conceded, “over a president is clearly out of their mind, and is in desperate need of a babysitter. Also, your accent sucks,” Thomas concluded smugly, drumming his fingers against the tabletop.

Alexander’s mouth fell open. His hands clenched into fists. “What the fuck?” he yelled. “You come here— _you_ came here, because, for the record, _I didn’t invite you_ —and you proceed to make a mockery of every part of me in every way imaginable—you insult my country, my accent, my skills—”

“Don’t forget your stellar choice of clothes,” Thomas added, thoroughly amused at the way Alexander blew everything out of proportion.

Alexander’s nostrils flared. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” he growled.

“You dress terribly,” Thomas declared.

“ _Well,_ ” Alexander’s eyes skated over Thomas’ appearance, “at least I don’t dress in magenta.”

“Magenta is _fashionable,_ fuck you very much,” Thomas scrunched up his nose. “You, on the other hand, dress like the pits of fashion.”

“Funny,” Alexander smiled in that way that suggested that nothing about this was funny, “you took the words right out of my mouth.”

“That’s enough,” Burr said, having magically materialized behind Thomas. “Alexander,” the Brit added pointedly, “time to get back.”

“Yes,” Thomas sneered. “Listen to your daddy.”

Alexander stood up furiously, his fists clenched, eyes blazing. Thomas crossed his arms, refusing to be intimidated by this squirt of a man. “Aaron’s not my father,” he hissed. “I’ll have you know that my fa—”

“ _Alexander!_ ” Burr shouted over Alexander’s increasingly loud voice. When Thomas glanced briefly at Burr, the man was glaring daggers into Alexander’s head. “Go home. End of discussion.”

Thomas couldn’t help sending one last smirk Alexander’s way as the two men took their leave. Alexander stuck out his tongue in reply.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas wished he could say that was the only time Alexander and he argued, but Alexander had the peculiar talent of finding him wherever he went. It became a pastime, and Thomas was surprised at how quickly he got used to it.

“You again?” Thomas groaned. He reminded himself that letting his head fall onto the tabletop wouldn’t be very professional of him.

Alexander grinned. “I couldn't deprive you of the honour of my presence, now could I?”

“You'd be doing me a favour,” Thomas grunted. In reality, it was only partially a truth; while Alexander had the unprecedented ability to rile Thomas up in record time, Thomas hadn't had such a good debate opponent in… well, _ever_. He hadn't felt so invigorated—so _alive_ —in years. Not even James could quite compete with Thomas, and yet this virtual stranger—though he wasn't sure whether he could safely call Alexander that, considering that the man had a serious case of oversharing—was able to trick Thomas into questioning the ideas he had believed in all his life.

Alexander sat down, his laptop bag on the table in front of him. He didn’t reach for the computer, instead leaning over to peer at what Thomas had been working on. Thomas wrenched away his laptop, shutting it firmly. “Don’t look at what’s not yours,” he snapped.

Alexander returned to the seat in front of his bag, though he was grinning unabashedly. “Curious,” he said by way of apology. It _figured_ that he wouldn’t even apologize.

Thomas made a show of looking around. “What, no chaperone today?” he snorted.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Actually, Aaron’s over there,” he subtly indicated the most secluded corner of the coffee house where, lo and behold, Aaron Burr was casually sipping his beverage. He had the appearance of being engrossed in his newspaper, but Thomas, who knew what he was looking for, saw that he glanced up every now and again, his eyes invariably finding Alexander every time.

Thomas wondered briefly how Burr had managed to sneak past him into the coffee house, then decided that some things were better left unspoken.

Thomas heaved a sigh. “What are you doing here? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got work to do.”

Alexander’s entire stance suddenly changed. It became more defensive, somehow, if that was even possible. “Nothing. Never mind,” he said, standing up and reaching for his bag. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Burr stand up as well. “I was thinking—I don’t know what I was thinking. I won’t distract you from this _super important_ work you seem to be busy working on.”

“You’ve already done that,” Thomas said, then made an impulsive decision. “You might as well tell me what’s on your mind,” he coaxed, using a little of the charisma that had gotten him through high school and college relatively sane.

Alexander didn’t seem to need any other encouragement. “I had a boyfriend,” the blond said bluntly.

Thomas tried not to let his shock be shown on his face. It was going to be one of _those_ conversations, then. Also, didn’t anyone teach Alexander that one didn’t simply come out to a complete stranger? He was lucky that Thomas wasn’t one to judge anyone for their choice of sexual partner. Sure, he didn’t begin to understand why two guys would want to sleep with each other, much less how it would work biologically speaking—not that he would need to understand, given that he wasn’t into stuff like _that—_ but that didn’t preclude him from accepting Alexander’s choice of lifestyle.

“And,” Alexander went on, seeming oblivious to Thomas’ internal conflict, “I may or may not have done something monumentally stupid—”

“What a surprise,” Thomas said dryly.

“—and now he won’t talk to me,” Alexander finished miserably. “Not that it matters right now, seeing as John’s back in England and I am _here,_ ” he said angrily, “but I don’t know what to do or how to fix it, and I know it’s my fault because I was the one to run my mouth off—more or less—and I think he hates me by now for ruining his life but I honestly didn’t mean to—”

“How did you ruin his life?” Thomas cut into Alexander’s monologue, catching onto the phrase which made zero sense. Not that any of what Alexander said made much sense, but he was able to at least paint himself a general picture.

Alexander waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter,” he dismissed it. “That’s the one part of this story that’s unimportant. As I was—”

“You’ve known me for all of _two hours,_ Hamilton,” Thomas said, using Alexander’s last name instead of his first in an attempt to create some distance between them. “Do you honestly have no other friends you could confide in? You don’t want to have to tell me your whole life story just to create context.” Though, knowing Alexander, Thomas reflected, he probably did.

Alexander bit his lower lip. He glanced at Burr, who was back in his seat, again browsing the newspaper. “Not really,” he confessed. “I haven’t had the opportunity to socialize much since coming here. You’re actually the first person, apart from Aaron, with whom I’ve talked for longer than five minutes in this past week.”

Thomas massaged his temples. “Give me the cliffnotes version,” he demanded.

Alexander sniffed. “I screwed up.”

“I got that part, thank you very much.”

“I sent an email that was meant for John to… someone else,” Alexander said, uncharacteristically vaguely. “And I’ve ruined any chance I could have had with him,” the blond looked down. He looked like a puppy that had been kicked, then thrown into freezing water for good measure. Despite knowing that Alexander could and should handle his own problems, and that he had Burr for the things he couldn’t, Thomas had the irrational urge to protect him.

“You must really love the sound of your own voice,” he heard himself say instead.

“So I was wondering whether you had any good advice,” Alexander finished a little breathlessly.

Thomas squinted. “Why would _I_ have any useful advice?” he asked in lieu of answering.

Alexander shrugged. “Because you're currently single.”

“What makes you think I’m single?”

You’re here, in a coffee shop, at eight in the evening on a Saturday, alone, with your computer,” Alexander pointed out, voice deadpan.

“Perhaps I’ve never been in a relationship,” Thomas parried.

“I highly doubt that,” Alexander said skeptically, his eyes roaming over Thomas’ body. Thomas shivered, not quite knowing why. “You’re ruggedly handsome. Why would you want to be single? Besides, since you asked me that particular question, I can safely rule out that option,” Alexander continued, but Thomas didn’t hear the rest, too busy having a minor panic attack because holy shit Alexander was _flirting with him_.

“I don’t swing that way,” Thomas blurted out when Alexander finished.

“Okay, that’s”—Alexander began, then watched, eyes wide, as Thomas stood up, stumbling slightly over the table, grabbing his laptop and his bag with shaking hands—“cool?” he finished uncertainly. “Hey, why are you leaving?” he shouted after Thomas.

“Oh, are you asking for my input now? Because it seemed like you had both sides of this conversation covered, and if I wanted to see a bad rendition of one-man parodies, I’d watch a late night talk show,” Thomas shot back, glad that his voice, at least, was steady.

Alexander stood up, crossing the distance between himself and Thomas in mere seconds. He grabbed Thomas’ sleeve, but Thomas jerked out of his touch. Alexander rolled his eyes in irritation. “Look, you won’t catch the gay just because I touched you. That’s what this flinching thing is about, isn’t it? For the matter, just because I'm gay doesn't mean I automatically want to sleep with you. Are _you_ attracted to every single woman you meet? Yes, you’re attractive, but I care about more than your body, and let me tell you, your personality? Sucks on all accounts.”

Thomas ground his teeth. “See you around, Hamilton. Or, you know, _let’s not_.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas locked himself in his house, citing migraines when one of his client dropped by to check on Thomas’ progress. She was none the wiser, making sympathetic noises, wishing him a speedy recovery as she left.

Thomas put her out of his mind as soon as she left his house. In truth, he couldn’t care less about what she thought of him. It wasn’t her he was avoiding.

Thomas was more than slightly embarrassed by his reaction to Alexander. He we confident in his heterosexuality to be able to take a bit of harmless flirting, right? If anything, it strengthened his conviction that he didn't play for that team. There had been no need to freak out as much as he did. He made a right fool out of himself.

He resolved to apologize to Alexander. Eventually.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

The idea of an apology flew right out of his head as soon as Alexander opened his mouth and launched into a tirade about the NAFTA.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

So far, Alex was living up to every stereotype Thomas had about the British—as well as several he hadn't been aware of having. Short, sassy, insanely smart and argumentative, as well as very defensive of ‘British traditions’ (which Thomas privately thought were bullshit), Alexander developed a habit of dragging Thomas into the oddest of discussions—the merits of _Batman vs Superman,_ followed by the morals of Batman vs Superman. That discussion sparked a rant on Alexander’s part which more or less could be summed up in ‘why Steve Rogers is the true villain of _Civil War_ ’, complete with a short PowerPoint presentation, leaving Thomas to contemplate what Alexander really did with his time. Didn’t he have work or something?

Then again, if his father could afford to have Alexander followed by a chaperone, Thomas doubted that Alexander would be in financial problems anytime soon.

Despite this, he hadn't felt so invigorated, so _alive,_ in years.

Thomas had always enjoyed a challenge, and Alexander happily provided that. Thomas couldn't help but marvel at how Alexander's brain worked—the blond sometimes made such weird connections that even Thomas, who was a card-carrying member of Mensa, was left speechless. It was as infuriating as it was entertaining.

“Why aren't vampires visible in mirrors? Does that mean they're not detected by motion sensors? What about cameras—are vampires photographable?” Alexander expounded in one of those rare moments when they weren't debating.  “For the matter, why would vampires burn in the sun?”

“I think it may be something similar to porphyria, actually,” Thomas mused. From what I can recall, for people suffering from porphyria, blistering and lesions on sun-exposed areas of the skin are caused by a buildup of porphyrin compounds—the things that, among others, help build hemoglobin by binding different metal ions together—close to the surface of the skin that have been oxidized by free radicals or sunlight.”

Alexander snorted. “What are you, Wikipedia?”

“The term is _well-read,_ ” Thomas said haughtily. “Naturally, I'd have to meet an actual vampire to be sure, but since vampires seem to need to drink blood, it logically follows that they can't create their own hemoglobin to carry around oxygen, and the prevalent myth says that vampires do need oxygen. Why can't they create their own hemoglobin? Because the porphyrins are somehow rejected by the body, a reaction in all probability caused by the vampire venom. The body wants to expel the porphyrins, but the usual way—kidneys—doesn’t work for such large molecules. The body, then, has to take other measures to remove porphyrins. They are taken to the extremities—the skin—where they are oxidized by sunlight.”

Alexander stared at Thomas as though he had grown a second head. “Did you just biologically explain vampires?” he demanded.

“Wasn't that what you wanted?” Thomas countered.

Alexander didn’t deign that with a reply. “So that means that once a vampire burns out all of their porphyrins, they’d be able to walk in the sun again?”

“I doubt it,” Thomas said slowly. “I think the body will continue to create porphyrins. Our very DNA commands our bodies to do so.”

“Unless the venom fundamentally changes our very DNA.”

“That’s possible,” Thomas conceded. “Since it’s a fictional concept, it could very well do that. That would mean that the venom could shut down some of our body’s processes.”

“Like the urine production,” Alexander picked up, looking pensive. “Do vampires even pee?”

Thomas tilted his head. “I don’t see why not, unless the urine production is completely shut down.” He met Alexander’s eyes with a calculating look. “You seem well-versed in chemistry, at least.”

Alexander grinned—a genuine, unguarded smile. Thomas ignored the churning feeling in his gut brought about by that smile.

“My, Mr Jefferson,” Alexander all but purred. “It almost sounded like a compliment.”

Thomas smirked. “You wish.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

They gradually moved their meetings from the coffee shop to the nearest library, where Thomas discovered that Alexander’s love for books was equal to his own—a fact which caused him to grin uncontrollably. That didn’t stop them from getting into shouting matches. Alexander had somehow charmed the librarian into letting them off with a warning. Thomas couldn’t blame her—Alexander really did have the most gorgeous eyes Thomas had ever seen, and his grin could light up a room.

It was beautiful.

 _Alexander_ was beautiful.

In a platonic way, of course.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

When he brought the Alexander problem up with James, his friend’s first response was an exasperated eye-roll.

“Thomas, you’re my friend and I love you,” James told him, “but you’re so far in the closet that you’ve found Dean Winchester.”

“You’re decidedly unhelpful,” Thomas informed him. “And what's _that_ supposed to mean? I'm not gay,” he said for what felt like the eleventh time.

James didn't deign that with a response. “I’m not the one you should be talking to about this.”

“I can’t. It’s nothing. There’s nothing between us.”

James made a disbelieving sound.

“Really,” Thomas repeated. He wasn’t sure whom he was trying to convince.

James looked like he wanted to add something but was refraining from it. “What did you originally come here for, Thomas?” he asked instead. “I believe you said something about a possible mafia?”

Thomas fiddled with a small notebook he had in his pocket. “I just—” he cleared his throat. “I can’t help but feel that he’s hiding something. Or, not _hiding_ per se,” he corrected, “but there’s definitely something he’s not telling me.”

“I imagine there are a number of things he doesn’t tell you,” James pointed out. “The last time he tried to tell you something personal, you flipped out on him.”

Right. Thomas was deeply regretting calling James and informing him about his panic attack. It had been stupid, and it gave James too much ammunition in any given discussion concerning Alexander.

Besides, James hadn’t met Alexander. He didn’t know what Thomas was talking about.

“Never mind,” Thomas changed the subject somewhat brusquely. “Enough about me. How have you been?”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

It was hate at first sight.

Until it wasn't.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

They still agreed on virtually nothing. It could be anything, from topics of relative importance like the monarchy or the age of majority in correlation with the legal drinking age, to more mundane topics such as pineapples on pizza, briefs or boxers, and cats versus dogs.

And, of course, there was the soulmate discussion.

_“Do you believe in soulmates?”_

_A derisive scoff. “Of course not. Let me guess: you do.”_

_“I have my guilty pleasures.”_

_“Hedonist.”_

_“Pessimist.”_

"Realist." _A correction._

_“A pug by any other name would be just as ugly.”_

_A snort. “Misquoting your national symbol? Isn't there some sort of punishment for that?”_

_An eye-roll. “Contrary to popular belief, we don't actually have culture police.”_

Some days, their arguments had been bordering on becoming physical—Alexander had once accidentally (or so he claimed, at any rate) launched a teaspoon into Thomas’ eye,

They did, however, agree that it was better to have a lousy opinion than to have none at all. At that, Burr, sitting two shelves away from them, heaved an audible snort—the man's first human reaction Thomas had seen since his first meeting with Alexander. Honestly, if Thomas hadn't been there for Burr's blow-up, mild though it might have been, he wouldn't have believed Burr human. (As it was, Thomas still had his doubts about whether Burr wasn't part-sphinx or something. Or a shapeshifter, he reflected, considering how skilled Burr was at blending in with any given surrounding.)

“On the other hand,” Alexander said, “I am deeply unsettled by the fact that we are in agreement.”

“ _On the other hand,_ ” Thomas repeated in the most inaccurate imitation of a British accent Alexander has ever seen.

“You're so full of shit. This poor an imitation should be prohibited.”

“You're not the fucking king. You can't tell me what to do,” Thomas shot back. “And what did you do, swallow a dictionary? Nobody says ‘prohibited’ anymore.”

“Well, _I_ do,” Alexander said defensively.

“Where did you grow up?” Thomas asked rhetorically. “Fucking Buckingham Palace?”

“You're one to talk,” Alexander retorted hotly. “You're practically the poster boy for privilege. And for the record, I grew up in a TARDIS.”

“Yeah, _right,_ ” Thomas drawled. “I think I'm going to stick with my Buckingham Palace theory, thank you very much.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Or what?” Thomas snorted. “You'll throw tea and crumpets at me? You'll send me to Azkaban?”

“Yes. _Wingardium levifuckyou_ ,” Alexander replied sarcastically. “You'll have to share a cell with Umbridge though.”

“Since when is Umbridge in Azkaban?” Thomas asked in surprise.

Alexander shrugged. “Since Jo told me so,” he said offhandedly.

Thomas scoffed. “J. K. Rowling told you that? Sorry if I'm not quite sold on that idea. Where would you even have _met_ her?”

“It's true!” Alexander insisted. “Wait a sec, let me…” he trailed off, digging through his pockets until he came up with his phone. He thumbed through a few photos, eventually finding what he had been looking for. “Here,” he said, practically pressing his phone into Thomas’ face. “And?” he demanded.

Thomas gingerly took the phone, holding it at a reasonable distance. He raised his eyebrows. There it was, clear as day: a selfie with Alexander and Rowling.

Thomas frowned. He had a sneaking suspicion that he had seen photo before, but that was _impossible_.

Handing the phone back to Alexander, he sniffed. “That only proves you've met her,” he said haughtily, though he couldn't quite keep the envy from his voice. What he wouldn't do to meet Rowling. What had Alexander _done_ to meet her? “You've yet to convince me that she put Umbridge in Azkaban.”

Alexander got a look on his face that Thomas recognized as the one he wore when he knew that something was, in all probability, not a good idea, but was too stubborn to lose an argument not to do it. “ _Fine_. If you're that way, I'll just have to prove it to you,” Alexander frantically scrolled through his phone.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “What are you going to do? _Call her_?” he suggested rhetorically.

Thomas didn't like the look in Alexander's eyes. “Yes.” With that, Alexander pressed one of the names on his—Thomas checked—contact list.

The words 'Jo Rowling’ popped up on the phone, along with a picture of a person very familiar to Thomas. He had seen her face a thousand times. He practically _grew up_ with her books; of course he knew what Joanne Kathleen Rowling looked like.

Either Alexander was trying to pull all elaborate prank on Thomas —a possibility that, knowing Alexander, couldn't be excluded—or he had _Joanne fucking Rowling's_ phone number.

The person on the other end answered. Alexander stepped away from Thomas, Burr following him like the vaguely creepy stalker he was, staying just out of hearing range, and _was that a gun_? What fucking kind of chaperone had a _gun_? Didn't the British have rules for these sort of things? Actual gun control? Thomas revised his theory of Alexander being the son of a billionaire. The way things looked, he was the son of a _mafia boss._

Alexander spent a good minute talking with the mystery person (Thomas sincerely hoped that it wasn't one of his father's mafia buddies) his words coming out very quickly and very quietly. Thomas could only catch the odd word, and what he did hear made no sense to him.

Suddenly, Alexander materialized at Thomas’ side. “Here,” he once again pressed the phone into Thomas’ hand.

Thomas hesitantly raised the phone to his ear, not sure if he wanted to discover who was on the other end of the call. “Hello?”

“Yes, hello, Mr Jefferson,” said a woman. “Joanne Rowling here. I heard you had a question regarding Umbridge's fate?’ she said briskly.

Thomas’ breath caught in his throat. Holy shit holy shit _holy shit._ It _was_ Rowling, in the flesh (so to speak). Thomas’ mafia theory solidified.

Later, Thomas would remember the phone call as though through a haze. He was working on autopilot. Yes, Umbridge was locked up in Azkaban after the war. No, Harry didn't do it personally, though she couldn't make any similar promises regarding Ginny. And could Thomas please keep this info to himself for now? Yes, that would be very appreciated.

“How?” Thomas said breathlessly when Rowling—Rowling! He had been on the phone with _Jo Rowling_!—ended the call.

Alexander grinned unabashedly. “I've got contacts,” he said, oddly vaguely.

Burr chose that point to approach them. “Alexander, it's getting late,” he not quite admonished. “We should—”

“Why didn't you tell me you know Rowling?” Thomas demanded, interrupting Burr mid-sentence.

Burr stilled. His shoulders tensed up. “Alexander,” he said quietly. His voice sent shivers along Thomas’ spine. “What did you do?”

Alexander blanched. “Nothing.”

Burr grabbed the blond’s shoulder, all but dragging him from his chair. “It wasn't _nothing,_ ” he hissed. “Next time you try to lie to me, do try to be convincing.”

The rest of Burr's words faded away as the two quickly left the library.

Wait. What was the time difference between the Eastern Coast and London? Thomas did a quick calculation. His eyes widened when he realized that it was closer to dawn than to midnight. How important _was_ Alexander, that an A-list celebrity wouldn't be angry at being woken up at _three in the morning?_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“Let's eat pasta.”

It was a warm afternoon, not quite yet evening, and Alexander had ambushed Thomas on a terrace connected to one of the higher-end restaurants in the Tristate area. In truth, Thomas hadn't even pretended to work. He knew what Alexander, along with his ever-present shadow, would find him.

It occurred to Thomas that he was becoming dangerously dependent on Alexander.

“I beg your pardon?” Alexander looked up, distracted. From what, Thomas didn't know, as Alexander hadn't brought anything—sans his phone, which was safely in his pocket.

Thomas let out an annoyed breath. “I want pasta,” he explained slowly, as if to a child. “And I know you, you dork,” he nudged Alexander's shoulder, causing the t-shirt to fall lower, exposing Alexander's collarbone. Thomas heartbeat sped up. He very pointedly did not stare. “You're going to steal my pasta. Ergo, we're both eating pasta. I'll even pay for your meal if that means you'll eat,” he offered.

Alexander rolled his eyes as Thomas summoned a nearby waiter, and ordered two pasta-with-fancy-name dishes.

“I can pay for my own bloody meals, thank you very much,” Alexander groused. “What's up with you and pasta, anyway?" Alexander asked idly, more to fill the silence than out of a desperate need to know.

Thomas’ posture shifted. "Nothing," he grumbled.

Alexander's mouth fell open. "Do you have, like, a macaroni kink?" he snickered uncontrollably.

There was a longer pause. “No."

"Oh my God, you _do_!” Alexander smirked. He absentmindedly began to trace patterns on the back of Thomas’ palm. Thomas either didn't mind, or didn't notice. “This is _golden_. You know,” he leered suggestively, “I've been told that the way I eat macaroni is—"

" _Alexander!_ " Thomas hissed, flushing slightly. He caught the fingers that were tracing patterns in his own hand. "Don't—I'm not—”

“What?” Alexander blinked innocently. Had Thomas not seen Alexander's devious smirk a few seconds prior, he would have fallen for his act.

As it was, he frowned. He glanced down at their interlocked hands, as if only now noticing them, and let go.

They were silent for a moment. Thomas perceived that Alexander was itching to say something. The blond was twitching in his seat.

“What is it?” Thomas finally asked. It was exhausting simply to look at the ball of endless energy that was Alexander.

“Thomas, you have so many good ideas,” Alexander got straight to the heart of the matter. He leaned back in his seat, sipping at his drink. “Why don’t you go into politics? You could make a difference there.”

Thomas didn’t reply. He squirmed in his seat. At last, he looked up. “I don’t like public speaking,” he confessed. “I have social anxiety,” he said, fiddling with the pen in his hands.

“Oh,” Alexander didn’t know what to say to that.

As if on cue, the waiter appeared with two plates, both smelling deliciously. He put the plates in front of the two men. Thomas gave a sharp nod, conveying thanks. The waiter took the gesture for the dismissal that it was.

“Eat your damn pasta,” Thomas told Alexander, who grinned at him cheekily, before making a show of eating the pasta in a manner that could almost be classified as obscene in a public place of such high standing as this. This didn't bother Thomas as much as it should have.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Things came to a boil on a Tuesday. Tuesdays had originally been Thomas’ leisure day, but lately, they’ve become Alexander Days.

Thomas woke up, realizing with a start that he was _looking forward_ to seeing Alexander, and to arguing with him.

It had been almost two weeks since Thomas had last seen Alexander, and, to Thomas, it was blatantly obvious that Alexander had a lot of pent-up energy he was just itching to get rid of.

Having learned from one of their previous meetings that it generally wasn’t a good idea to let Alexander stew for too long—the monologue about every individual Doctor’s sexuality still weighed heavily on his mind—Thomas engaged Alexander in a light discussion about whether the portrayal of Faramir in the movie was excusable, given the cuts that had to be made and scenes that never fully bloomed to life.

“No, Alexander—Look, all I'm saying is that, given another two hours, they could—”

“Yeah, two hours from _never_ ,” Alexander scoffed.

Thomas gritted his teeth. “If you'll let me finish? This is a movie. You can't convey all the information that the book captures. Given another two hours, Jackson could have gone into the in-depth psychology of the characters, creating the background that the book fans are already familiar with, but given the time limit, is understandable—”

“ _Understandable_ my ass,” Alexander retorted. “As a result of that, people have to wrong impression of Faramir: that of a power hungry ruler wannabe and a failure of a child, when, in the books, Faramir’s ability to resist the call of the One Ring is actually one of his most important characteristics, being the result of a choice he makes. That is one of the crucial lessons in this trilogy: the consequences of one's own actions. Faramir and Boromir represent the two possible paths; you can't just _cut out_ an analogy like that!” Alexander sounded genuinely outraged—as if the matter somehow upset him on a personal level.

 _Sweet Jesus,_ Thomas adored him.

The thought didn't disturb him as much as it ought to. Of course he was fond of Alexander—they were equals on every level.

He told Alexander as much. Alexander didn't answer. Odd. When he glanced back at his companion, there was a glint in Alexander’s eye. Thomas swallowed, suppressing the part of him that was curious and almost _excited_ about it.

“What are you thinking about?” Thomas asked idly. “Not that I don't appreciate the silence, but I've learned that—”

The rest of his words were drowned out as Alexander pressed his lips against Thomas'.

It was a clumsy attempt, and their noses clashed—not to speak of other parts—but Alexander adjusted accordingly with a speed that, quite frankly, astounded Thomas.

Thomas acted on instinct. He kissed Alexander with a desperation that could only be likened to a parched man frantically searching for water. He has never felt so giddy in his entire life. The touch was enough to knock the air out of Thomas’ lungs.

Alexander was intensity personified. Alexander tasted like happiness. Alexander was _intoxicating._

Thomas thought he could never get enough of it.

Thomas’ hands came up to cradle Alexander’s face, his fingers carding through that ridiculous blond hair. For a moment, it felt as if time itself had looked away, leaving them alone in their private bubble, almost a miniature universe of its own. Alexander and Thomas, Thomas and Alexan—

“I—I can't do this,” Thomas said desperately, tugging himself away in horror. “I'm not gay.” He looked away from Alexander's eyes, where he saw nothing but confusion. He didn't want to see the inevitable betrayal mar Alexander's handsome features, with the awareness that _he_ was the one to put them there.

“No, you're not,” Alexander agreed readily. “You're bisexual. And yes, it's an actual thing.”

“I need to go,” Thomas said, jerking his hand out of Alexander's grasp. Alexander didn't struggle, making Thomas wonder what exactly it was he wanted. Was that just a game for the Brit?

“Thomas! Wait! Can we talk?” Alexander yelled behind him.

Thomas ignored Alexander's pleas. He needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and this asshole, this irritating yet somehow endearing jerk, and honestly, some days Thomas wanted nothing more than to kiss that smug smirk off his—

He was in love with Alexander Hamilton.

Thomas’ thoughts ground to a halt. _Fuck_. He was in love with _Alexander_ _Hamilton_. Thomas resisted the urge to tug at his hair; it was a calming habit he had when he was on the verge of a panic attack—and realizing that he had become infatuated—had _fallen in love_ , even—with a man certainly constituted a valid reason for that.

He was so screwed.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas didn’t remember anything from the way back to his apartment. His memory simply blurred together. For all he knew, he could have been robbed and he wouldn’t even have noticed. Robbery would have, quite honestly, been a welcome distraction from his actual predicament.

Thomas closed the door and leaned against it, trying to control his ragged breathing. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

So. Bisexual.

It wasn’t that he, objectively, had something against bisexuals, but he had always been taught not to so much look down on people loving the same gender as… well, they weren’t _normal,_ were they? Thomas has grown up believing that, and he’s never had reason to question it, having always been attracted only to women. Until Alexander.

He resisted the urge to bang his head against the nearby wall, then realized that there was nothing stopping him from doing just that. He slammed his head against a nearby wall, letting out a scream when the pain finally reached him. In that moment, he didn’t give a damn about what his neighbours thought of him. As long as they didn’t come knocking—or, worse, call the police—they were welcome to think whatever they wanted. They could gossip about sodding orgies for all they—

Thomas let out a quiet sob. He was nearing his thirties, _dammit._ He was far past the time for sexuality crises. Anyway, what gave Alexander the right to come into Thomas’ life and completely _shatter_ his whole sense of identity with nothing but that ridiculously charming smile and his idiotic ideas and that blond hair Thomas wanted to touch again, because he had only now found out that it was as soft as it looked.

Thomas’ thoughts were going in circles. He focused his anger on the cactus in the hall, glaring at it with all his might, as if it was to blame for his problems.

Maybe the problem was that Alexander’s features, hands—indeed, his entire look!—was decidedly feminine. His cheekbones were sharper than a man’s, his lips redder (Thomas had noticed that before—how long _had_ he been staring at Alexander’s lips?—but chalked the colour up to lipstick; now, licking his own lips, he realized that there was no lipstick on them—red seemed to simply be Alexander’s natural colour), and his posture was slender, with very few muscles—and then there was his long hair, often tied up in a ponytail, light enough to seem almost fake. Had Thomas looked at Alexander from a distance, he could easily have believed him a woman. His brain probably simply had a problem with ascertaining Alexander’s gender.

Thomas grimaced. As much as he wanted to believe himself—and he had always been skilled at keeping any unwanted feelings hidden in the far recesses of his mind, or, better, yet, in denial—there was a little voice in the back of his head that whispered that Thomas knew better than to trick himself.

Exhausted from the emotional whiplash, Thomas made his way to his bedroom as if on autopilot. He collapsed on his bed, pressing one of his pillows against the back of his head in an attempt to drown out the outside world. With a little luck, the problem would go away by tomorrow.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

> _Thomas,_
> 
> _Look, I don't understand what I've done, but whatever it is, just tell me. I don't know how to fix this if I don't know what 'this' is._
> 
> _Please, Thomas, let me help._
> 
> _Ever yours,_
> 
> _Alexander_

 

> _Alexander,_
> 
> _It's not you, it's me._
> 
> _Thomas_

 

> _Thomas,_
> 
> _That's the most bullshit excuse I've ever heard. Listen, we kissed. Let's not lie to each other or pretend it didn't happen. Let me guess: your thought you were straight, didn't you?_
> 
> _Ever yours and ever annoyed,_
> 
> _Alexander_

 

> _Alexander,_
> 
> _Out of curiosity, how many people have questioned their sexuality as a result of you?_
> 
> _Thomas_

 

> _Thomas,_
> 
> _You didn't answer my question._
> 
> _Sincerely considering punching you in the face,_
> 
> _Alexander_

 

> _Alexander,_
> 
> _Maybe I didn't like your question._
> 
> _Thomas_

 

> _Thomas,_
> 
> _I'm going to take that as a yes._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Alexander_

 

> _Alexander,_
> 
> _You're pretentious as fuck, you know that?_
> 
> _Thomas_

 

> _Thomas_
> 
> _You love me anyway._
> 
> _Hugs and kisses,_
> 
> _Alexander_

There was no reply to that.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas’ to-go method for coping with anything unexpected was isolation. He had done it when Macy Adams from sixth grade rejected his tentative offer to come over for a play date; he had done it when Alice Jameson from college had laughed at his carefully-phrased proposition to go out for coffee; and he was doing it with Alexander.

Each time followed a specific manner. It was almost a ritual: Thomas locked himself in his private space—be it his room or his apartment—and chose the first distraction that came to mind, in the hopes that it would distract his mind from whatever was troubling him. In this fashion, he had taught himself how to play the violin back in college: he had picked up the basics on his own in high school, and had sharpened his skills during his self-imposed isolation. As a child, he had compulsively drawn elephants in what he thought at the time exquisite detail.

This time, threw himself into work—a coping method he happened to share with a certain obscenely attractive violet-eyed genius. He finished two of the projects he had had looming over him, and started on one that wasn’t due for another seven months. It was rather Hamilton-esque of him, he thought with a smirk. The smile slipped off when he remembered what had brought him to this exact point. He _wasn’t supposed_ to be thinking of Alexander. It shouldn’t be this hard.

Eventually, some concerned person noticed his absence and checked in on him. It had been his mother who comforted him after Macy’s rejection, bringing him bandages and cake and hot chocolate, and telling him funny stories from when she had met Thomas’ father; after Alice, it was James, who took the time to ask Thomas’ classmates about assignments as well as notes from the lectures Thomas had missed. James didn’t say anything—he simply sat there, an anchoring presence, waiting in comfortable silence until Thomas was ready to talk.

Two days into his exile, James dropped by. He took one look at Thomas, and sighed. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Thomas…” he began, then stopped. “It’s Alexander, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean ‘it’s Alexander’?” Thomas snapped. “How long have you—”

“You’re forgetting that I’ve known you since we were thirteen, Thomas,” James reminded him. “I’ve been there when you fell in love with Thalia, with Alice, and with Martha. You had the exact same facial expression when you looked at them as when you look at Alexander. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots,” James murmured.

“I’m not gay,” Thomas repeated with a grimace, as if the reiteration of that statement would add to its veracity.

James rolled his eyes. He put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder. The taller man tensed up. He very carefully did not shrug off James’ palm. James let his hand fall away. “No. And you’re not miraculously going to turn completely gay just because you’re attracted to one specific guy. You’re still attracted to women. If anything, I’d say Alexander is an exception—and that’s something you need to come to terms with,” James ordered.

Thomas groaned. “Alexander isn’t anything special. He’s just an annoying shit with an ego the size of—”

“Thomas, you’re _literally hurting_ yourself,” James huffed. “You may be bisexual, or you may be Alexander-sexual. It makes no difference here. Either way, it’s pretty obvious that you have feelings for the guy. You can either hide them, though I personally don’t recommend it in the long run, or you can talk to him. If he's half as smart as you make him sound, he will see that you're an amazing guy, and that he'd be a fool to reject you.”

“You don’t hate me?” Thomas asked, eyes wide in surprise.

James drew in a sharp breath. “Thomas, what made you think I'd _hate_ you?”

“You're _Republican,_ ” Thomas’ voice was barely above a whisper, as though uttering a damning fact. “We both are.”

“We are also human, and humanity's greatest gift is its capacity for love. Look,” James changed tracks, seeing that he was getting nowhere, “you can’t control whom you fall in love with. And it’s certainly not my business whom you choose to have sex with. That’s between you and that person. Unless that person is me,” he added humorously, “in which case I'm flattered I don’t swing your way.”

“Who said anything about sex?” Thomas wouldn't have been able to sound more affronted if he tried.

“You probably will, eventually. Or maybe you won’t,” James shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less. “Regardless, it’s not my concern.”

“Your advice has been decidedly unhelpful,” Thomas informed his friend.

James huffed. “You want useful advice? Fine. Listen to your heart. Give this a chance before you tell him goodbye. Call him. Talk to him. You'll regret it if you reject it outright. Don't put too much weight on Hamilton's gender. It is what it is.”

Thomas considered James’ words. On one hand, it didn't exactly offer a solution to the whole 'I’m attracted to a man’ problem, but maybe James had a point. Thomas could not change the fact that he had fallen in love with Alexander, nor the fact that the feelings were, at least partially, reciprocated.

And trying to force himself to be someone he wasn't… Even Thomas recognized that it wasn't a good idea, and he had once stolen parts of Shakespeare’s chair with one of his college friends.

Eaten seven scoops of oyster ice cream on a dare from James’ friend Dolley.

It was time to face the facts. Thomas couldn't hide in his apartment for the rest of his life, tempting though it sounded.

“Yeah, I'll talk to him,” he promised James, voice more weary than it had any right to be.

James nodded. “That's all I can ask for.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas hesitated at the steps leading to the library. He knew that here's where he would most likely find Alexander, considering their mutual almost meticulous obsession with books. Still, something held him back. He felt a mix of apprehension, dread, anxiety, and hope. What if he didn’t find Alexander? What if he was wrong about his assumption that Alexander had feelings about him that matched Thomas’? What if he laughed in Thomas’ face?

His thoughts were, as always, remarkably positive.

Thomas shook his head. There was no use deliberating the ‘what if’s.

He hadn't known where Alexander lived, and any attempts at finding the man had been futile. He strongly suspected Aaron Burr of deliberate meddling. As if it wasn't hard enough already, Thomas had to talk to a bodyguard and part-time overprotective mother hen.

His stomach fluttered at the sight of Alexander. He thought about squashing it; he didn’t. What was the point? He was here to talk to Alexander about his feelings. It wouldn’t do to suppress them now.

Burr was the one who saw him first. He grimaced at Thomas’ sight, which caught Alexander’s attention. The blond turned, his face shining up when he saw Thomas. Burr still had a frown on his face, looking for all the world like he’d like nothing more than to be able to hang Thomas up by his guts from the highest nearby building, Batman style.

“Thomas!” Alexander exclaimed in surprise, and was that happiness in his voice, or was Thomas beginning to imagine things now?

Burr was glaring daggers at Thomas as he approached, but didn’t comment. Instead, he moved to stand just behind Alexander, an imposing shadow if Thomas ever saw one. A weaker man would have recoiled, but Thomas was a _Jefferson,_ dammit. He was on a mission, and he wasn’t about to be intimidated by a burly guy with a gun. Even if that someone was Aaron Burr, almost certifiably a trained assassin of some sort.

Thomas looked away from Burr. He wasn’t the person Thomas had come here to talk to; Alexander was.

“Alexander,” he replied softly. “May I speak with you?”

Alexander narrowed his eyes. “That depends. Have you come to terms with the fact that you’re bi?”

Thomas blanched. “I’m trying,” he offered.

“Trying isn't good enough for me,” Alexander retorted hotly. “As much as I like you—and, believe it or not, I like you a _lot_ —I’m not going to let my feelings be played around with. Even by you. _Especially_ by you.”

“I'm not going to,” Thomas promised. “It's just that I've never been attracted to someone of the same gender before. This is all new to me.”

“In what way is this supposed to convince me that I'm not an experiment?” Alexander crossed his arms.

“Because I've come to terms with the fact that my feelings for you can't and shouldn't be denied, your gender be damned,” Thomas confessed, laying himself vulnerable for Alexander to see.

Alexander’s eyes softened. Burr's lips formed a thin line of disapproval. “‘His gender be damned’?” Burr echoed. “That is textbook denial, Mr Jefferson.”

Alexander sighed. “Aaron, this is between Thomas and myself,” he reminded the taller man.

“I don't want to see you heartbroken,” Burr said plainly. “You know what happened last time.”

Alexander swirled on the spot, fixing Burr with an angry glare. “This isn't going to be like last time,” he growled.

“You can't be certain of that,” Burr countered. “You know how they are. They're vultures. They're going to pounce on every weakness you show, and you already have enough of them.”

 _They?_ Who are they?

“Thomas isn't a _weakness,_ ” Alexander spat.

Thomas listened to the conversation in increasing bewilderment. There was something he was missing here.

He coughed to catch their attention. “If you're done talking about me like I'm your neighbour’s dog…?” he trailed off suggestively.

“No,” Alexander replied, “you're a petulant child who can't deal with being attracted to another man.”

“I’m not a child. Even if I was, what would that make _you_?” Thomas retorted.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t locked yourself away in that ridiculous castle of yours,” Alexander snorted. “What was it? Mount Cello?”

“ _Monticello,_ actually,” Thomas corrected him haughtily, “and it’s a _manor,_ not a castle. Not that I’d expect you to know the difference.”

“You’d be surprised,” Alexander muttered darkly.

Burr coughed pointedly. “Please stop,” he said, his voice somewhere between a plea and an order.

Alexander let out a chuckle. “Don’t worry, Aaron Burr, sir,” he assured his chaperone. “He’s too ignorant to figure it out.”

“And what does that say about _you_?” Burr countered, in an eerie echo of Thomas’ previous words.

Thomas shook his head. “We've gone off-topic,” he pointed out. “Can we return to the point where you tell me if I've completely screwed up whatever chances I had with you or not?” he attempted a smile. It fell when he met Burr’s arctic stare.

“Burr, would you mind giving us some space?” Thomas asked rather bluntly.

“Yes, actually,” Burr said coldly.

Alexander sighed, turning to his friend exhausted. “Aaron, if you could—”

Burr crossed his arms, looking decidedly miffed. “Alexander, you know my orders,” he said curtly, and that wasn’t mysterious at all.

Alexander sighed, looking back at Thomas, who recognized this as a lost battle. Burr wouldn’t budge for anything less than an assassination, and even then only to take down the threat before returning to his place at Alexander’s side.

Alexander stepped closer to Thomas. “You're a moron,” he told Thomas.

Before Thomas knew what was happening, he was being dragged down to Alexander's level. Alexander stared into Thomas’ eyes, his own violet eyes flickering with _something,_ seemingly searching for something. He seemed with what he found; his lips twisted into a smirk before leaning in at _just the right angle._

Thomas’ breath caught in his throat. Was this how it had felt before, except Thomas was too busy panicking to notice?

It couldn't be likened to anything he had ever done before. When he kissed Martha, there was the hint of honeydew and cut grass. With Alexander, he could taste the smell of books, sea salt, and something that was distinctly _Alexander._ The beginnings of a stubble scratched Thomas' chin, and he spared a thought to consider his own unshaven face. While ‘beard’ was an exaggeration, he did have several days’ worth of hair. Did Alexander like the feeling of it, as Thomas did, or would he demand that Thomas shave it off?

Why hadn't he tried this before? It felt too right to be anything but. This was where Thomas belonged.

Alexander did _something_ with his mouth that brought out a gasp from Thomas, the sound caught between their mouths.

Thomas nibbled on Alexander's ear. Alexander smirked and turned his head slightly, catching Thomas’ lips in his own.

Seconds, minutes, hours. Time went by, simultaneously rushing and crawling, speeding up and coming to a stop. Thomas had no idea how long they stood there for.

“Alexander, _Burr_ is still here,” Thomas said when they parted.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “I must be doing something wrong if you can still think of Aaron,” he muttered.

Thomas snorted. “In case you haven't noticed, he's standing _right here,_ staring at us.”

Alexander huffed. He turned to Burr. “Aaron, please give us some space.”

“I can't.”

“Come on,” Alexander cajoled. “What's Thomas going to do? _Kiss_ me to death?” Alexander said slowly, as though talking to a particularly stupid child.

Burr wasn't convinced. “Hamilton—” he spoke, before Alexander cut him off.

“It wasn't a request,” Alexander's voice became harder, taking on an edge that Thomas, for a number of reasons, shouldn't like, but found that he did.

Alexander and Burr glared at each other. Burr finally relented. He disappeared between the bookshelves. Still, Thomas couldn't shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

“Why do I feel like he's still watching us?” he asked rhetorically, not actually expecting an answer.

Alexander shrugged. “Because he is,” he said simply. “Just more subtly.”

Thomas marveled at the way Alexander said it. As though he was used to those kinds of invasions of privacy; as though he saw no problem with it, or at least gave off that impression. Not for the first time, Thomas wondered at what Alexander's childhood must have been like. What kind of a person was resigned to having no privacy to speak of.

No wonder that Alexander had sneaked off the first time Thomas had met him. He was probably desperate for even a moment alone, away from the ever-watching eyes of his father's minions.

“Thomas?” Alexander's voice startled Thomas. “Is something the matter?”

Thomas grinned. “Not a thing.” His hand came up to cradle Alexander's neck. “I love your eyes,” he admitted.

Alexander grinned. He mirrored Thomas’ movements, cupping the taller man's face. “I was about to say the same thing. Your eyes are a _stunning_ shade of quicksilver.”

“Says the Targaryen,” Thomas poked Alexander’s side, resulting in a wince from the shorter man. “All you’d need is a crown, and you’d be set to sit on the Iron Throne.”

Alexander stilled. Thomas vaguely noticed that Burr likewise tensed up. Alexander finally offered a weak smile. “I look _terrible_ in a crown, love,” he said, imagining Burr's glower at the casual comment.

Thomas snorted. “What, did you ask the king whether you could try it on?” he drawled sarcastically.

“You can _bet your ass_ I did,” Alexander deadpanned, deriving an obscene amount of joy from the fact that he found say things like that without Burr standing by, face apoplectic.

Thomas harrumphed. “You're lucky you're cute, because you're a _horrible_ liar.”

Yeah, _right._ If Thomas knew even half of Alexander's secrets, he'd be eating his own tongue.

Instead of voicing his thoughts, Alexander smirked. “You think I'm cute?”

“Haven't I made myself clear on that?” Thomas replied in the same tone.

“No, I think you were too busy with,” Alexander put his finger to Thomas’ lips, forcing them ajar. In a move that surprised them both, Thomas gave it a lick before sucking on it lightly.

“Why, Mr Jefferson, I didn't know you were an exhibitionist,” Alexander teased.

Thomas sputtered. “I am not,” he sounded indignant.

“ _You so are,_ ” Alexander laughed. “I love it.”

Thomas huffed. Figures.

“What do you say we move the party to somewhere private?” Alexander suggested.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing your place?”

Alexander grimaced. “Actually—I don't—” he grasped for words, as if he might find the right ones given enough effort. He settled on, “I'm curious where you live.”

Thomas suspected that Alexander wasn't being entirely truthful, but it didn't feel like the right time to bring that up. He grabbed Alexander's hand, squeezing it. Alexander returned the gesture with a smile. That smile did _things_ to Thomas. He didn't want that feeling to ever stop, wanted to preserve that feeling forever.

“Let me show you around.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Everything changed, yet, in a way, nothing had.

They still met up on Alexander Days, during which Alexander was, unfortunately, still accompanied by the ever-present shadow by the name of Aaron Burr.

Thomas and Alexander still argued over virtually everything—though Thomas was beginning to suspect that it wasn't so much a conflict between them as simply a part of Alexander's character.

The difference was that, while they met on their customary time, Thomas also took the time to spend some time with the blond every day. They spent a lot of that time simply enjoying each other's presence, or, if Burr deemed the location sufficiently safe and left them to their own devices, they were making out like a pair of teenagers until they were both out of breath and grinning like fools.

Another thing that had changed was that Thomas had taken to taking Alexander out on dates—and paying for them, despite Alexander's insistence that he could pay for his own bloody food, Thomas, just let me do it.

“It makes me happy,” Thomas would usually reply through gritted teeth, pushing the dish in question at Alexander. “Eat your damn soufflé.”

One evening, Alexander had managed to talk Burr into letting him and Thomas go out to dinner at Lester's without bodyguard supervision. Under normal circumstances, a reservation at Lester's had to be done months in advance. It was the kind of restaurant where high-ranked diplomats, presidents, royalty, and other A-list celebrities would typically make reservations to impress their guests. The restaurant was as famed for being America's gastronomic heaven as it was notorious for being hard to get a table at.

Thomas being Thomas, he had a reservation for the same evening.

Whoever said money couldn't buy happiness clearly hadn't eaten at Lester's.

Alexander, of course, saw things in a different light.

“This is so fucking overpriced," the blond declared.

“It's the best restaurant in the Tristate area,” Thomas countered.

Alexander scoffed. “That doesn't say a lot,” he did dubiously. He glanced around, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “And pretentious, to boot.”

“Just wait until you taste the food,” Thomas grinned, positively giddy with anticipation, though he hid it well. Alexander always had to add his own two cents to everything, didn’t he?

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Next time, I get to choose the location,” he announced. “At least mine aren’t so ostentatious.”

“As long as it’s not another trivia night,” Thomas warned. “I'm never attending another one of those with you."

“We won,” Alexander felt the need to point out.

“Yeah, because you answered _every single question,_ ” Thomas deadpanned. “Where’s your sense of fair play? Let other people answer for a change. Or at least let _me_ answer.”

“Dream on, tosser,” Alexander laughed.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Alexander, by contrast, chose the somewhat less conventional spots for dates.

Case in point: horseback riding.

"Where did you learn to ride a horse so well?” Thomas asked, staring at Alexander. “I grew up in the Southern aristocracy, old money, so we had horses when I was a kid, but I hadn't expected you to be able to ride one.”

It was almost as if the shorter man had formed a telepathic bond with the animal. They moved in unison, Alexander having to move but slightly for the horse to acquiesce and change directions accordingly. Alexander gave off the impression of having been born on horseback. He was either a natural, or he received an obscene amount of training, though Thomas was doubtful as to whether a mafia boss would allow his son to spend so much time with animals rather than humans.

Alexander shrugged, and his horse neighed for emphasis. “Horses like me,” he said enigmatically.

Behind them, Burr’s horse whinnied loudly, clearly as uncomfortable with its rider as the rider was with the horse.

Thomas rolled his eyes. He nudged his horse to stand next to Alexander’s. “Does Burr _have_ to accompany us on dates?” he asked with irritation.

Alexander glanced over his shoulder, his eyes finding Burr walking fifty-something feet behind them. “I doubt you’d be able to dissuade him from following me,” Alexander said somewhat ruefully, “but you’re more than welcome to try. For my part, I’d love some privacy,” he winked at Thomas, who swallowed.

Thomas angled his body towards Alexander. His hand found Alexander’s, fingers intertwining. Their horses stood absolutely still, as if sensing the emotions of their respective riders.

“Well, at least we were alone in that cornfield,” Thomas smirked. "I must admit that the look on Burr's face when he found us two hours later was well worth getting lost in the creepy labyrinth they call a field.”

Alexander laughed. He raised their joined hands to his lips, pecking the back of Thomas’ palm. Thomas probably shouldn’t find it as endearing as he did.

“Race you to the forest!” Alexander suddenly shouted before taking off at full speed. Thomas watched as Alexander’s hair fluttered in the wind as he galloped. The light shade of it reflected the sun, although Thomas thought that he saw small streaks of red in it—probably the way Alexander’s hair reacted to sun. It was a trite concept, Thomas admitted, but it didn’t make the sight any less breathtaking. Thomas grinned despite himself, before he too prompted his horse into gallop, adrenaline coursing through his blood.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas took Alexander to the flea market. Alexander all but dragged Thomas to a vicious one-on-one game of laser tag. To that, Thomas responded by inviting Alexander to a flashy yet oddly intimate evening at the local indoor skating rink. Alexander’s next destination was the planetarium, although they were nearly kicked out when he insisted on recalibrating one of the telescopes since “this wasn’t how the sky looked like from Glasgow; these so-called scientists should do their damned research” that had Thomas stifling a grin and Burr a patented eye-roll.

They also attended a tea ceremony, went rock climbing, and visited a food festival, not necessarily in that order.

When Thomas imagined dating Alexander, he hadn’t been expecting to enjoy himself quite this much. Granted, he hadn’t imagined, or hadn’t allowed himself to imagine, dating Alexander, but when he did get around to consider the prospect, he hadn’t thought that he would enjoy such mundane activities with Alexander. Their relationship had been built on arguments and debates, so he hadn’t been sure whether it would survive other activities, but they seemed to click anyway. Thomas genuinely enjoyed spending time together with Alexander.

Life wasn't perfect—Thomas was too much of an adult to turn a blind eye to its imperfections and shortcomings—but it was damn near as close to it as it could be.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas watched Alexander sleep, his chest heaving in rhythm with his breathing.

There was something that the man was hiding, of that Thomas was certain, but, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was. And while he probably could force Alexander to tell him—he _was_ a notorious oversharer, after all—Thomas would rather that Alexander tell him on his own.

He remembered breaching the subject the other day. Thomas curiosity had gotten the better of him. Alexander had gotten very defensive, eyes flashing with _angerterrorsadnessfear._

_“You don't even know what you're asking me to confess,” Alexander said quietly. “You don’t want to know.”_

_“I do,” Thomas insisted. “Whatever it is—"_

_“You’ll help me?” Alexander filled in darkly. “Believe me when I say that it’s better for you to remain uninformed.”_

_“Does it have anything to do with Burr trailing after you like a trigger-happy puppy?” Thomas tried a different angle._

_Alexander frowned. He didn’t reply. Then again, silence spoke volumes._

_Thomas lifted Alexander’s palm up to his lips. “You know that whatever it is, you can tell me, right? I won’t break up with you.”_

_“You can’t promise that,” Alexander retorted. “You_ shouldn’t _promise that, not when you don’t even know what ‘it’ is.”_

_Thomas sighed. “I realize that I may not always be a great person—”_

_“Speak for yourself; I'm awesome.”_

_“—but I want you to know that you can come to me with your problems.”_

_Alexander had a peculiar quirk to his lips as he said, “I'll keep that in mind.”_

That conversation hadn’t ended well: Alexander had left in a huff after Thomas’ prodding had gotten to be too much. While it increased Thomas’ curiosity tenfold, it also made him realize that, had he forced Alexander to reveal his secret, he would have been left with that heavy feeling in his stomach, and a massive guilt trip.

Thomas shook his head, his thoughts dissipating. He glanced at Alexander’s sleeping form again, pressing a light kiss to his forehead, before slipping under covers next to him.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Later that week, Thomas was approached by Burr. “Mr Jefferson,”  he began in a tone of perfect civility that Thomas had come to recognize as pure and unadulterated bullshit. “While I respect the fact that Alexander, for some unfathomable reason, seems to _like_ you, rest assured that, should you so much as give him a paper cut, I will not hesitate to hang a fishing hook down your throat, castrate you and sell your genitals to the food industry. I hear it’s a delicacy in Beijing,” Burr drawled, the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips even as his eyes remained frosty. Involuntarily, chills ran down Thomas’ spine. “Now, if you want to have all of your internal organs intact, I suggest you cease to harass Alexander. His secrets are his own, and your new relationship status doesn’t automatically give you the right to know all of them. What is the modern saying? ‘You have to be at least level four boyfriend to unlock my tragic backstory’,” Burr quoted in a way that was nothing short of petrifying.

In a way, Thomas had been expecting this since the day he got together with Alexander. Burr was the epitome of the overbearing guardian.

The only surprising part was that Burr, apparently, had a tumblr. Thomas couldn’t imagine what an assassin turned bodyguard could possibly blog about—the best kinds of ammo? The most efficient way of getting rid of a body? How to get away with murdering your charge’s new boyfriend?

Thomas suppressed a shudder. He wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the case.

Burr observed him with a carefully blank look in his eyes. “I believe we are in agreement, then?” he stretched out his hand. Somehow, even _that_ gesture managed to look intimidating.

Thomas grabbed the proffered hand.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas woke up on Sunday to find his phone flooded. He normally muted his phone, valuing his sleep too much. He didn't know whether to be relieved or regretful that he did.

1187 missed calls, including 34 from James and 51 from Alexander, 592 text messages—some of it from people he hadn't talked to since _middle school_ —and too many voice messages to count. Thomas frankly dreaded opening his email.

What did he miss? Had he been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize overnight? It was honestly the only reason he could think of for why his phone seemed to have been host to the virtual equivalent of Miami Beach during March break.

He decided to open up one of Alexander's texts. Its content did nothing to dissuade his fears.

_‘I don’t know how they found out. It wasn’t me. Please don’t hate me.’_

Thomas’ brain came to a screeching halt.

What the _everloving_ fuck.

On a hunch, Thomas fired up his news app, skimming through the articles. His eyes grew wider, his mouth falling agape, with every article.

 

> _SCANDAL: PRINCE ALEXANDER'S SECRET ROMANCE!_

 

 

> _JUST IN: BRITISH ROYALTY IN LOVE WITH AMERICAN ARCHITECT?_

 

 

> _CELEBRITY LIFE: STAR-CROSSED LOVERS ACROSS THE WORLD!_

He scrolled through the articles, many of which featured him and Alexander—holding hands, laughing at a restaurant, going fucking _horseback riding in a forest—_ in a state of morbid curiosity. There was even one of Thomas pushing Alexander up against a wall, snogging him senseless. Alexander’s hands were in Thomas’ lapels, while one of Thomas hands was pressed against the wall, the other wrapped around his boyfriend’s waist.

Thomas’ fingers automatically went to the hickey he knew still adorned his neck, just low enough that a turtleneck or a scarf would hide it. Alexander had been very insistent that night, focusing all of his attention on Thomas’ throat. Thomas’ face flushed from the flashback, remembering how invigorating a feeling it had been to have been the sole focus of Alexander's intensity.

His fingers fell away, as did his smile. It didn't seem to matter much now. Alexander had lied to him every second of their time together. He had looked into Thomas’ eyes and lied with a pathological ease every day. He didn't deserve a place in Thomas’ thoughts.

A heavy feeling settled in Thomas' stomach, not unlike being crushed by a ton of lead. Thomas found that he couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, knowing Alexander's secret didn't feel as great as Thomas had imagined it would. He would have preferred the mafia, if he was honest. At least with those, it's apparent from the beginning that they're backstabbing traitors.

Thomas looked back at the phone. Where did these reporters even find these images? Have they been stalking them? Have they been stalking _Thomas_? Why?

_"You know how they are. They're vultures. They're going to pounce on every weakness you show, and you already have enough of them."_

Burr had said that, hadn’t he? Was that what he had meant? Nosy journalists? Creepy and stalking reporters, desperate for even the whiff of a story?

_Burr._

Thomas gritted his teeth. _Burr had_ _known_. He wasn't a mere mafia minion; he was a bodyguard of the royal family. That son of a bitch had _known_ , and he hadn’t said a word to Thomas.

Thomas read on, aware, peripherally, that his brain was still processing the meaning of the words he had read. Alexander the son of a mafia lord, he could believe. Alexander a _prince_? The _crown prince_ , to boot? That was a difficult concept to wrap his head around. And yet, if he thought about it, it wasn't surprising at all. The pieces have always been there for Thomas to put together: Alexander's seemingly random allusions, which he now realized were _hints_ ; the way Burr didn't allow Alexander any privacy—he must be tired of the constant attention, a fleeting thought crossed Thomas’ mind, but he squashed it before it could fully form; how, every time the topic of Alexander's family came up, he would get twitchy and evasive; even the sheer fact that Alexander had J. K. Rowling’s _private phone number._ It wasn't exactly _normal._

His phone chimed with another message from Alexander. It simply read _‘Call me ASAP’._ Thomas ignored it. His Royal Asshole could damn well wait.

Instead, Thomas clicked on James’ contact. The phone only had the chance to ring once before James picked it up. “Thomas, are you okay?” his friend said without preamble, immediately going to the crux of the matter.

Thomas sighed. “No,” he admitted. “James, he fucking _lied_ to me. All that time. This has been my second significant relationship ever—the first after Martha, and you know how _that_ ended—and it’s all been built on a _lie._ How do you fucking _think_ I feel?” he snapped.

“Do you want me to come over?” James asked finally.

Thomas took a deep breath. “No, thank you. I don’t see how it would help.”

James was quiet for a moment. “You really don’t do things by halves, do you? When you fall for a guy, it _has_ to be a prince. Your life is a literal fairytale.”

“Yeah,” Thomas scoffed, “except for the part where fairy tales don’t feature gay protagonists, and the prince’s love interest isn’t supposed to have the social competence of a well-trained brick. If my life was a fairy tale, it’s the Grimm kind—the one where everyone dies at the end.”

“You’re confusing Grimm with Shakespeare,” James said idly.

“No. If this was Shakespeare, there’d be a chance for a happy ending,” Thomas said bitterly.

“Yes, I know,” James cut him off, “you're in love with him.”

“No,” Thomas corrected. “I'm not in love with him. I _love_ him. Fuck it, James," he drew in a sharp sob, "I _fucking love him._ I love that idiot, and he has lied to me all this time. I was fucking trying to change for him, _improve_ for him, and do you think he gave a fucking damn about it?” he snorted. “He wouldn’t. He’s the _fucking prince,_ of course he doesn’t.”

As he spoke, the words slowly blurred together, becoming indistinguishable, one unending stream of thought until Thomas didn’t know where one idea ended and another began. Tiredness crept upon Thomas, and he closed his eyes, absentmindedly massaging his temples in an attempt to alleviate the pain.

“…mas? Are you still with me?” James’ worry was almost palpable across the phone.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Thomas reassured his friend.

James sighed in relief. “You suddenly just stopped mid-sentence. I was worried that—never mind,” Thomas could almost imagine James waving away Thomas’ questions. “Do you need—”

“No,” Thomas cut off whatever idea James was about to propose. “I don't need a damn thing. I need people to _leave me alone._ I need my life back. I need that royal fucker _gone._ ”

James sighed. “I know that this is the last thing you want to hear, and you'll probably delete my contact, but you need to talk to him. You can't begin healing if you let the wound fester.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Jefferson didn’t reply to Alexander's texts that day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Aaron couldn’t help but notice that Alexander grew more withdrawn, more _melancholy,_ with every passing day. He was beginning to question whether Alexander’s relationship with Jefferson was quite as shallow as he had initially believed.

It was time for a re-evaluation.

(He wasn’t getting paid enough for this.)

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas put off talking to Alexander for three days. Even by his standards, it was impressive. On the fourth, he decided that enough was enough. Ignoring the increasingly desperate text messages from Hamilton, he tapped on Alexander's contact.

The message was short and to the point: _‘We need to talk.'_

In lieu of a response, Alexander texted him an address. When Thomas entered it into Google Maps, he discovered that it was located in the nicer, although by no means opulent, part of town. Thomas frowned; he didn't know what he had expected—a palace smack in midtown Manhattan? A run-down shack?

He shook his head. It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter.

He hailed an Uber, rattling off the address. To his relief, the driver didn't ask any questions. She didn't seem to recognize him, either, which gave Thomas hope for a peaceful post-Alexander life. It really did.

Once they pulled up at the address, Thomas paid her, shutting the door with a quiet thank you.

Thomas ran up the stairs, only reminding himself half-way up that he wasn't at all anxious to see Alexander. He was the one being fucked over; he shouldn't apologize for taking his sweet time. Alexander should be grateful that Thomas even wanted to confront him.

Thomas came to a halt at the top of the stairs, staring at one of the doors speculatively. _Did_ he want to confront Alexander? Why was he even doing this? He knew well it wouldn’t change anything. He could easily just go home and pretend this never happened. Pretend _Alexander_ never happened.

 _Fair chance of_ that, said a voice with an eerie resemblance to James. _Wounds fester if untended to._

Thomas wanted closure. He wanted _answers._

His mind set, Thomas moved slowly, as if through a haze. It seemed as if hours had passed by the time Thomas reached the right door. He glared at it, channeling the anger he felt at being lied to, being manipulated, being treated like a fucking toy, at it. It didn’t budge. Doors were resistant like that.

Thomas rang the doorbell. He heard a ruckus, and there was sudden movement behind the door, before it was opened, revealing Burr. Thomas almost scoffed. Of course. Now that he didn't have to pretend for Thomas, Alexander didn't have to bother opening his own damn doors.

“Jefferson,” Burr greeted him neutrally, face as stony as ever. It was one of universe’s constants—the speed of light was approximately 300 million meters per second, aluminum was oxidized by gold, and Aaron Burr didn’t express emotions.

Thomas silently pushed his way past Burr. He wasn't in the mood to talk to the bodyguard. To be fair, he wasn't in the mood to talk to Alexander either, but that was a necessary evil.

Thomas stopped in the middle of the apartment, glancing around quizzically. He didn't know where Alexander was, but he also wasn't willing to ask Burr for directions. Luckily, he didn't need to—Alexander emerged from what looked like the kitchen, a wet towel swung over his shoulder. He was dressed lightly, only wearing a button up and a pair of jeans. He padded across the floor without shoes or socks, his feet making soft splashing sounds that reverberated around the apartment.

“Thomas—” Alexander began, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He took a hopeful step forward.

It was as if a dam had broken inside of Thomas. He approached Alexander, his eyes crackling with fury. Alexander’s breath hitched, and he carefully edged away from Thomas. Thomas followed him, mindless of Burr’s presence. He stared at Alexander for a moment, then slapped him across the face. A smack echoed in the silence surrounding the three men. Burr took a menacing step forward, but Alexander raised a stalling hand. “I deserved it,” he admitted abashedly.

Thomas’ nostrils flared. “You can bet your ass you did,” he snarled. “You lied to me for _four months._ Not _once_ did it occur to you to tell me the truth. _Not once._ ”

Alexander winced. He pressed a wet towel to his rapidly reddening cheek. “Actually—” he protested.

“A lie by omission is still a lie,” Thomas cut him off, violently slashing a hand through the air, not bothering to spare a thought to consider how he had been able to predict Alexander’s argument. “You lied to me. You fucking lied to me all this time. Was it _fun_?”

“I only lied about who I was,” Alexander said, then blanched. “That came out wrong.”

“You can _bet your ass_ it came out wrong,” Thomas snarled. “You may have well lied about everything. How would I know?”

“Trust me,” Alexander said earnestly.

Thomas scoffed. “Yeah. That’s not going to happen, _Your Highness,_ ” he said mockingly. “Run back to your little palace.”

Alexander finally stepped forward, invading Thomas’ personal space, his fists clenched. He looked two seconds away from physically launching himself at Thomas. The tension between the two was virtually palpable.

Burr glanced between them, unsure of whether he should intervene yet.

“Fuck you,” Alexander spat. “ _Aaron_ was the one who wanted to keep it a secret,” Alexander defended himself. “ _I_ wanted to tell you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Aaron Burr wasn’t my boyfriend; _you_ were,” Thomas snapped. He squeezed his fingers. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to throttle the guy. England would be better off without that bastard on the throne. He’d be doing them a favour, actually.

“So what was I _supposed to do_?” Alexander yelled, face hot, throwing his hands up in the air. “Tell you?”

“That would have been a good start, yes! So I wouldn’t have had to find out from Celebrity Weekly that my boyfriend—my _only_ boyfriend—is the crown prince of England!”

“The United Kingdom, for your information,” Alexander corrected him insolently.

Thomas stared at him coldly. “You’re full of shit, Hamilton. I can’t believe I hadn’t seen that before. Or maybe I did, but was in denial,” he drawled bitterly.

“You’d have hated me. You hate everything with even a vague connection to royalty.”

“Maybe that’s all the more reason to, I don’t know, _tell me_! Jesus Christ, Alexander!” Thomas cried, frustration evident. He dusted off some imaginary particle from his sleeve. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Alexander’s silence spoke volumes.

Thomas turned on his heels, his eyes unexpectedly filling with tears. He couldn’t bear to look at Alexander anymore, couldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing Thomas brought so low.

“We can still fix this,” Alexander implored the taller man.

Thomas stared at him coldly. "I don't think we can," he intoned slowly. "Our priorities lie in two vastly different directions. I thought that this was a serious relationship for you, as it was for me, but it’s obvious that this was just a temporary fling for you until you could return to your beloved England and that other guy of yours—John Laurens, was it? I remember reading about him. Was I your substitute?” he mocked. “I’m not a toy you can just leave behind. I see it now. You love this—your country, your constituents, the throne—more than you love me,” Thomas accused.

“Please don't make me choose,” Alexander practically begged, tugging on Thomas’ sleeve. When Thomas didn’t look back at him, he rolled his eyes and went around to stand in front of him once more.

Thomas’ eyes held nothing but ruthless conviction. “That's _exactly_ what I'm doing, although your answer—or the lack of one, at any rate—seems to speak for itself."

“Why can't _you_ give up your work?” Alexander shot back. “You have more than enough money, and that's nothing compared to what's in _my_ bank account.”

Thomas’ eyes blazed with fury. “Has it occurred to you that I'm not doing this job because I need money?” he said quietly, a dangerous edge to his voice. “That maybe I _like_ what I'm doing? If I so wanted, I could live like you: not having to lift a finger, living on my parents’ money,” he said cruelly. “ _But that's not what I want._ And I’m not sure I want to be with you anymore, either.”

“You know what? I’ve realized something,” Alexander hissed angrily. “You’re just a twat who can’t see past the tip of his own nose.”

“And you have been lying to me for the past four months,” Thomas retorted. “I think we’re even. I was perfectly happy before you waltzed into my life like you owned it.”

“You must’ve hit your head on the way here, because, as I recall it, _you_ were the one to approach _me,_ ” Alexander recounted, anger rolling off him in waves. He pressed an index finger to his lips in a mockery of thoughtfulness.

They locked eyes, matching furious expressions on their faces.

“I don’t know how I could stand you,” Alexander blurted out honestly. “We have nothing in common.”

Thomas felt his throat constrict. He said the first thing that was on his mind. “Actually, we have exactly one thing in common: we're both in love with you.”

Resounding silence.

There. Thomas said it. It didn’t feel as relieving as he had imagined.

“It was all your goal eventually, wasn’t it?” Thomas accused. “Make me fall in love with you, then watch as I fall apart when you leave without so much as a say-so.”

“Not everything is about you, Thomas,” Alexander retorted. “Don’t make this about you! How do you think I’ve felt when I had to lie to you every single day?”

“That’s the thing: you _didn’t_ have to lie to me. You could have just _told me the fucking truth_! But _no,_ that’s below Alexander Hamilton, with a silver spoon so high up his fucking ass that he—"

"Oh," Alexander scoffed, “that's _rich,_ coming from the guy who could probably buy out all of New York!” He stopped to take a breath, then glanced back up at Thomas. “I had feelings too, you know."

"Somehow, I can't bring myself to care," Thomas laughed darkly. “I’m a bit too preoccupied with the fact that the person I fell in love with—the person I _turned gay for—_ broke my fucking heart. Congratulations. You’ve achieved your goal. You pushed me, and I fell completely head over heels for you. You won. You can go ahead and laugh. I actually got emotionally invested in this. I thought that there was something between us. Clearly, I was wrong. I’m pathetic; I can’t even take a fucking joke.”

“You weren’t a toy or a game for me!” Alexander yelled. “Can you get it through your thick head?”

“I’m sorry if I don’t believe that,” Thomas snarled, “I fell in love with a _lie_ , Hamilton! This whole thing—all of it—a _lie._ Do you have any _idea_ how that feels? No! Of fucking course you don’t! You were content to just play normal—keep the wool over my eyes. Could you not predict how this would end? Are you _that_ stupid? Did you honestly delude yourself into believing that we would live here in our little isolated paradise for the rest of our lives? Did you even fucking have a plan for how this would end?”

“I had a plan!” Alexander insisted, though his voice quivered.

“Enlighten me then! What did you expect me to do? Just ditch my job, the respected job that I strived hard for and genuinely love, and come with you to England to be some kind of boy toy to you? A prize husband? Alexander,” Thomas scowled, “if you think that, you don't know me.”

“That's how it is, then? You won't quit your job for me, and I won't give up my title for you,” Alexander said with more righteous anger than Thomas thought the situation merited.

“I guess so,” Thomas snarled. “Goodbye, Alexander Hamilton. Or whatever your name is. You probably lied about that too,” he swirled, heading for the door.

Alexander rushed after him. “Thomas—” he put a hand around Thomas’ shoulders.

Thomas whirled around. He caught Alexander’s arm in a tight grip, fingers digging in deeply enough to leave bruises. “Don't go near me again.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas was fine. Really, he was great. He was slowly but surely moving on from the clusterfuck that had been his disastrous relationship with Hamilton—not _Alexander_ , never again _Alexander—_ and was handling it like the adult he wa—

Hell, who was Thomas trying to deceive? He was an emotional wreck.

For starters, he hadn't been lying when he told Hamilton that he was in love with him. That wasn't the sort of thing one got over immediately. (Or ever, really.)

Thomas has had to deal with the attention of strangers who recognized him on the street—

_“Hey, isn’t that the guy who slept with the British prince?”_

_“Sure looks like him.”_

—or, honestly, _anywhere_ in public. He couldn’t even order a coffee or borrow a goddamn book without getting pulled over by a curious onlooker who wanted to know if the prince was as good in bed as the rumour said. (In lieu of a response, Thomas had flushed deeply and shoved his way past the insolent brat.)

It seemed that, even without being present, Hamilton still managed to ruin his life.

Adding insult to injury, his clients were suspicious of Thomas. Was he really that reliable? He hadn’t even known the identity of his longtime lover.

Some of his potential clients had since declined to hire him. They cited a limited budget, the wish to avoid undue expenses, or fluctuating preferences, but Thomas knew the truth: they simply didn’t want a _queer_ designing their house. It might leave marks in the building, Thomas thought bitterly. As though his orientation would be written in permanent marker across their new walls.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the frankly astonishing amount of times Thomas had been called less than polite names, ‘faggot’ being the least offensive. He was beginning to understand why Alex—Hamilton had taken to fleeing the country. If this was the backlash he was dealing with as the other man, so to speak, what had _Hamilton—_

It didn’t matter. _Alexander Hamilton_ didn’t matter.

_(Repeat the lie until it becomes the truth.)_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas Jefferson was, quite possibly, the most infuriating creature to grace the Earth.

“And another thing,” Alexander spoke, “it was so fucking presumptuous of him to assume that _he_ was the only person affected by this break-up. Like _I_ don’t have feelings. Like _I_ don’t matter. I’m not some heartless bastard, you know. Well, I am a bastard, but I have it on good authority that I do have a heart. Aaron,” he suddenly addressed the man behind him, “what do you think I should do?”

“I wouldn't want to presume to have an opinion on the matter,” Aaron said neutrally. Alexander, who has spent the last twelve years with Aaron as his head of security, recognized this as Aaron's way of telling him that he was an idiot.

“Yeah, I know,” he slumped in his chair, a defeated look on his face. “But I love him. I don't want to lose him.”

Aaron very carefully did not move. “Of course, Your Highness.” _You've already done that, loser._

“No need to be so rude,” Alexander snorted, to which Aaron quirked an eyebrow. It was his equivalent of condescending snort. “But seriously, I realize that I've royally fucked up—pun definitely intended—and I want to fix that. I miss him,” he whined. “He challenged me in ways I hadn't imagined possible.”

Aaron nodded impassively. “I understand, Your Highness.” _And what an I, a wet sock?_

“Not that I don't value your company,” Alexander hurried to add. “You've been a very dear friend to me. I jus—what we have is different from what I had with Thomas.”

Pointed silence. _I sincerely hope so, you dolt._

“I know what you're going to say. He doesn't deserve you. He's not worth it. But, Aaron, the thing is that he _is_ worth it!”

There was a loud noise outside their apartment. Aaron's eyes flickered briefly to the window, before settling back dismissively on Alexander. _Talking to me won't help you. You should talk to_ him _instead._

“I can't. He has made it clear that he doesn't want to see me again.”

_Don't talk to him, then._

Alexander sighed. “I'm afraid you're wrong.” His voice had a melancholic note to it. “Thank you for listening anyway. You're always helpful. It's been great talking to you.”

His phone chimed, indicating an incoming call. Alexander picked it up quizzically, his face turning solemn when he recognized the number. With a sigh, he answered. “Hi, George! How's Britain?” he said faux-brightly.

“Hello, son,” George's voice sounded amused despite the gravity of the situation. His voice shifted, taking on a graver tone. “You realize that this isn't looking good for us.”

Alexander nodded, then realized that George wasn't able to see him. “Yes, sir.”

“May won't hesitate to use this at the next State Conference,” George warned.

Alexander sighed. “I'm well aware. What do you need me to do, sir?” he asked, switching his voice to businesslike.

“Return home,” George said simply. “I believe it is time for you to resume your duties.”

Cogs were turning in Alexander's mind; ideas were flashing through his mind too quickly for him to register, evaluating the potential in each, his mind discarding some and refining others into plans.

“I have an idea,” he said suddenly, his words rushing into one another in his fervour to express them. “I'm going to take on more duties. I mean, you have gone on for years and years about the workload and I think that it's time for me to step—”

George hummed. “That _would_ go a long way to assure them that you aren't just a pretty face,” he said slowly. “It would build up your reputation, show that you are willing to face the consequences of your actions head-on, and strengthen the monarchy's popularity.”

Alexander grinned. “My thoughts exactly. It would also have the additional bonus of discrediting May, and decreasing your workload.”

“I cannot say I would complain,” Alexander could almost hear George's smile over the phone. “The airplane is going to be waiting for you at Newark tomorrow morning,” he said, then sighed. “Now that business is out of the way, I need to ask you: how are you doing?

Alexander shrugged. “I'm good, he lied.”

“Alexander, you're my son,” George reminded him. “I know when you're lying. Besides, I remember you after the Laurens affair. I know how heartbroken you were.”

“I'm fine,” Alexander repeated insistently.

“This Jefferson boy really seemed like something special,” George mentioned carefully.

“Will you _let it go_ already?!” Alexander snapped. “What do you want me to say? That he was beyond amazing? That he was too good for me? That I may well have screwed up my chances with the love of my life? _I already know that._ ”

Alexander was breathing hard by the time he was finished.

On the other end of the call, George sighed. “Alexander…” he began, then paused. “I wish there was something I could do to help you. I really do. It pains me to hear your voice like this.”

Alexander grimaced. “I wish that as well,” he admitted mournfully. “But Thomas made his choice clear. He doesn’t want to see me again. As much as I hate it, I need to respect that.”

“Careful there, son,” George murmured. “You wouldn’t want to sound like a mature adult, would you?”

At that, Alexander cracked a smile. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, Your Highness,” he concluded formally.

“By your leave, Prince Alexander,” George answered on the same note.

Alexander stared at the phone for another moment after the call had ended, before abruptly turning on his heels and stalking out of the room. “Come on, Aaron,” he shot over his shoulder. “We have stuff to pack. I’ll be damned if Protection Command fucks up my Tolkien collection.”

Aaron silently trailed behind Alexander, a small smile on his lips.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas briefly considered changing his phone number. Was the bother worth Hamilton not having a direct line of contact?

No, he decided, the hassle with calling all of his clients with his new number, and changing it on his website and with his agents.

Plus, knowing that there was still a chance that Hamilton might call him was… not entire unpleasant. Not that he _wanted_ Hamilton to call him—he told him as much—but still. It was nice.

Besides, Thomas reckoned, Hamilton could easily discover whatever new number he chose—even if he didn’t have all of MI6 at his beck and call, he could just look up Thomas’ name on the internet. He could _hire_ Thomas if he so wanted; he had more than enough money to be able to afford Thomas’ services. Thomas blinked as a thought hit him. How rich was the royal family, anyway? _Jesus Christ on a stick,_ Hamilton was even richer than he was. His net worth didn’t bear thinking about.

The turning of the lock startled Thomas out of his reverie. He glanced at the door, but there was only really one person who had a key to Thomas’ apartment. (Technically, there were two, but the other person was well across the Atlantic by now.)

“Thomas, are you still moping around?” James’ voice echoed from the hall.

“I do not _mope,_ ” Thomas replied gruffly.

James rolled his eyes. “A sulk by any other name would be as irksome.”

“I knew I could find comfort in your words,” Thomas said sarcastically.

“Who said I’m here to comfort you?” James put down his bag on one of the couches, before settling down in the armchair opposite Thomas. “I’m here to help.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not in this case.”

James stood up. He busied himself in the kitchen while Thomas was frozen on the couch. Thomas heard the clinking of mugs, and the tell-tale sound of his kettle coming to a boil.

James entered the living room with two cups of tea. With trembling hands, Thomas accepted one of them from James. The smell of herbs assaulted his nose, palpably calming him.

James re-took the seat opposite Thomas. “Thomas,” he spoke, “although I may be slow on the uptake when it comes to these matters, I am not _blind._ I have eyes. Do you know what I see?”

“The blatant abuse of your best friend giving you the key to his house?” Thomas scowled.

“I see that you’re so in love with the guy that it hurts,” James barged on, words grave. “I can see that you’re pining for him, even though he broke your heart. I can see that you’re nowhere near getting over him—maybe ever.”

“I’m over him,” Thomas said obstinately, even as the lie tasted sour on his tongue.

James laughed. “Thomas, how long have we known each other?” he asked rhetorically. “I can tell when you’re lying, and that wasn’t even a very convincing lie. Don’t insult my intelligence,” he reprimanded.

“He’s a lying tosser with an ego the size of Endor.”

“God, you even _sound_ like a Brit now,” James sounded far too amused for Thomas’ liking. “I guess British propriety really is contagious.”

“Fuck you,” Thomas told him. “I fell in love with an _illusion._ Happy now?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly…” James trailed off.

“How would _you_ know?” Thomas demanded. “You haven’t even _met_ the guy.”

“No,” James conceded, “but I trust your judgment.”

Thomas’ only response was a derisive snort.

“Tell me one thing,” James tried a different angle. “Did he try to trick you, even once?”

There was a long pause. “No,” Thomas finally admitted.

“Honestly? Even if he did lie about his feelings for you, who’s to say that it wasn’t real to him as well?”

“I—” Thomas began, but the words died on his lips. James was right; Thomas couldn’t know for certain, not unless he was a mind reader. Was there a chance that Alexander’s feelings had been as genuine as Thomas’? And, if so, what did that make Thomas?

"Thomas,” James went on, “from what you've told me, he's into you for more than a fuck. At the very least, he values you as a friend, and whether you believe it or not, you're in love with him. You are. I know you're back to nine feet deep in denial, but you love him—which I know because _you told me yourself._ Don't let him get away. You'll regret it for the rest of your life.”

He felt as though he had been punched in the guts. Alexander’s indigo eyes flashed through Thomas’ mind.

God. It hadn’t been a game for Alexander. What had Thomas _done_?

He didn’t know how long he was sitting there, frozen in the same position. All that he knew was that he had to do _something._ He had to talk to Alexander, explain himself. He needed to go to England as quickly as possible.

“I need to go to England,” Thomas said suddenly.

James pursed his lips into a thin line, his expression practically oozing disapproval. “Even disregarding all the physical obstacles, how can you be so sure that Hamilton even _wants_ to see you? The last time you spoke, you assaulted him and effectively terminated any chance of a clean recovery of your relationship. I can’t imagine he’d be glad to see you, given that. What’s more, what if you can’t get in? In case you’ve forgotten, Hamilton lives in the _Buckingham Palace._ It’s not exactly an easy place to get into.” His words were slow and measured.

Thomas huffed dubiously. “A second ago, you were encouraging me to run off and confess my undying love for the man. Now you’re _against_ it?” he sounded disbelieving.

James shook his head. “I’m not against it, but you can’t just rush into this. If you recall, rushing into matters was how your relationship _ended._ It’s not going to help matters. You need a plan.”

“And what’s your idea?” Thomas asked rhetorically, voice sour.

James’ grin was oddly unnerving. “An audience with the king.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

The flight was excruciatingly long, and yet too short by far. It felt like mere moments had passed between the take-off and the landing, but those few moments had seemed to stretch out for days. The wait did nothing for the heavy feeling in Thomas’ stomach.

Once the plane landed on Heathrow, Thomas wasted no time in hailing a taxi—a _cab,_ as the British said. He had booked himself into a hotel—the nice kind, too. Just because he was here trying to make up for his mistakes didn’t mean that his back had to suffer as well.

That done, he registered himself as requesting a meeting with the king. Three security checks later—and Thomas suspected that they were running an even more thorough check without his knowledge—Thomas was placed in the queue. It couldn’t be _that_ easy, could it?

As it happened, it was. The hard part came now—the waiting.

James’ words echoed in his mind. _“Once you’re there, request an audience with the king. King George has audiences between nine and one.”_

_“And what if I don’t get an audience?”_

_James had shrugged. “Then you’ll try again the next day.”_

An ‘audience’, as Thomas found out, was a ten-minute private meeting with the king. Alexander’s father.

He didn’t have any luck on the first or the second day. On the third, he struck gold.

The phone rang.

“Thomas Jefferson?” Thomas heard a feminine voice when he picked up after the first tone. “The king will see you today at quarter to eleven.”

The voice did not give Thomas a chance to reply, or to refuse the offer. It ended the call.

So that was it. His relationship with Alexander would stand or fall based on a ten-minute meeting with Alexander's father from eleven forty-five to eleven fifty-five.

The uneasy feeling in his gut grew.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas was in front of the palace at four minutes past eleven. He waited in line as security verified his identification. He hadn't appreciated just how many visitors Buckingham Palace entertained on a daily basis. Even his mother's parties, famous for the fact that anyone could attend—a very controversial idea in their community at the time—didn't have quite this many people. He doubted he had ever seen so many people at once in his entire life.

“Thomas Jefferson, eh?” one of the security people said derisively. “On the guest list for today, I see.”

Thomas bit his cheek to stop himself from rising to the bait. “Yes, sir,” he said demurely. “That’s me.”

The guard snorted. He returned Thomas’ ID card. “Well, go ahead, then,” he gestured inside. “Good luck talking to the in-law,” he shot after Thomas.

No wonder Alexander was so damn rude, Thomas mused, if he had grown among _these_ sorts of people.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Eleven twenty-two. Thomas had managed to find his way to the room where the king’s guests were supposed to wait. Granted, it hadn’t been too hard a task, since all he had to do was follow an official down a labyrinth worth of corridors, but he still chalked it up as a success.

With dismay, Thomas noted that he was the last person on the king’s agenda. Either it was simply a coincidence, or the meeting would be quite different from the rest of the king’s audiences, and, while Thomas did believe in coincidences, there were some odds that were _too_ great to ignore. An incensed father wanting to have the time to properly berate the man that broke his son’s heart—a father who happened to be nothing more nor less than the king of England—sounded too probable to be a mere coincidence.

No, what was more probable was that the king either didn’t need the full ten minutes to chew out Thomas, or he wanted more time to reprimand him. Neither option sounded all that appealing to Thomas, but the situation he had found himself in was not unlike a roller coaster—he was already strapped in and at the top of the fall; it was too late to back down now.

Thomas watched as, one after the other, the other people in the waiting room entered through the massive double doors.

At eleven forty, the woman before him walked out, a guard closing the door after her. Thomas tapped his knee anxiously.

At last, the door opened and a woman stepped out. “Mr Jefferson,” she called out. Thomas recognized her as the same woman who had called him earlier. “His Majesty will see you now.”

Thomas nodded silently. He stood up and followed the woman inside.

Thomas had, to be honest, been expecting a throne room of some kind, or at least an opulent saloon, but the room he found himself in was far from any of those. It was a normal office, if a little spacious, with deceptively simple yet comfortable-looking furniture. Even the desk was Spartan—nothing more than a tabletop and two chairs. Even Thomas’ apartment was more elaborate.

The king himself was standing in front of the window, his back turned to Thomas. The woman approached the king. “Your Highness, your last appointment is here.”

“Thank you, Angelica,” the king said, still not turning around. “Leave us, please.”

The sound of a closing door had never seemed so ominous to Thomas. It resembled, more than anything, the doors of hell shutting behind the cursed souls, trapping them forever.

The room was quiet for a moment as Thomas stood awkwardly behind a chair at a desk, not sure whether it would be rude to sit without the king's permission, while Washington continued to study the landscape outdoors.

Thomas didn't speak. If there was one thing he knew about audiences with royalty was that one did not speak until spoken to. It was the host who began the conversation.

Just as Thomas was beginning to lose hope that a conversation would even take place—mayhaps Washington only accepted Thomas' audience request to be able to ignore him for a good ten minutes, which, considering his son, wasn't something Thomas would put beyond him—the king turned around. He leveled Thomas with an intimidating look. It was the kind of look that brought world leaders to their knees. Though George Washington’s role in modern politics may be representative, he would be damned before he let any other nation play him a fool.

Thomas, refusing to budge, stood his ground, staring resolutely into Washington’s steely eyes.

“Thomas Jefferson,” Washington intoned slowly. “I must say, I expected more.”

The king sat down behind his desk, motioning for Thomas to take the seat opposite him. Thomas happily obliged.

Another silence ensued. Thomas wasn't sure if the exchange technically counted as conversation. He chose to remain silent, wanting to be on the safe side. He was on Washington's bad list already; there was no need to aggravate an already unfavourable situation.

“You may speak,” Washington said at length, voice not betraying his thoughts. Compared to him, Thomas reflected, Burr was practically an open book.

Thomas started. “Sir, I thank you for the opportunity to speak with you. I'd like to clear up a few poi—”

“I am not interested in any explanations you might have to offer,” Washington cut him off brusquely, which, Thomas thought, rather defeated the purpose of allowing him to speak. “Let’s not dance around the subject: you are not here to speak to me, but to my son. I'm afraid that is simply not possible,” Washington folded his hands in his lap. Before Thomas had a chance to speak, Washington went on. “Crown Prince Alexander is currently busy,” Washington said coldly. “I’m afraid that he will not be available for quite some time, and even then, he won't waste his time on people like you.”

“ _People like me_?” Thomas scoffed. “You mean normal people; _common_ people.”

Washington shook his head. “I have nothing against people born outside of royalty. Both of the women I fell in love with were from the common crowd. No, Mr Jefferson, I mean hypocritical liars; people so close-minded that they cannot accept that the world may be different from how they had first imagined it. _Those_ people,” Washington said bitingly. “I suggest you leave, Mr Jefferson. You have done enough damage as it is.”

“Sir, I must insist—”

“ _You broke my son’s heart._ I’ve never seen him this distraught in his entire life.”

“Well, he is the _fucking prince._ Of course he’s had an easy life,” Thomas drawled.

Washington shook his head in visible disappointment, as if Thomas had failed some sort of test. “Your lack of open-mindedness is astonishing. Do you truly believe that a person born into royalty has an _easy_ life? Especially one destined to take the throne? Since birth, they know that one day, they will be the representative of their country. The sheer amount of responsibilities and weight on your shoulders, pressing down since before you can walk, is nothing short of _suffocating,_ ” Washington emphasized. He sighed, his face aging ten years in mere moments. “Alexander has decided to take on more responsibilities, and does not have time for you. That's all you need to know. Leave, please, and don't bother coming back.”

Thomas stood up. He made as if to leave, then turned back to face the king. “If I may, there must be a reason for why you invited me. I can't imagine I'm your favourite person right now,” Thomas said haltingly.

“I saw your name on the list,” Washington said curtly. He glanced out of the window as he spoke. “I admit I was curious as to what kind of a person would break my son’s heart.”

Thomas would lie if he claimed that those words didn’t feel like a slap. It was only fair, he supposed, since that was how he treated Alexander when the other man tried to explain himself to Thomas.

Washington’s words had an unexpected effect on Thomas—they kindled a fire within him.

“Your Highness,” For the first time since entering the room, Thomas addressed the king formally by his title, and Washington looked back at Thomas in mild surprise, “I beg you to allow me to talk to Alexander. Five minutes are all I need.”

Washington raised an eyebrow. “Give me _one good reason_ for why I should allow you to speak to my son.”

“I love him,” Thomas blurted out. He cursed himself for his lack of control, but the damage was done.

Washington's eyes narrowed. “How do I know you're not using Alexander for his own gain?”

“Because I hate royalty, and because I have enough money to buy out Apple if I so wanted to,” Thomas replied, meeting the king's eyes straight on.

“For all I know, you may be planning to add another nail to his coffin,” Washington pointed out, not unreasonably.

“I’m not,” Thomas said helplessly. “I can’t give you a more specific reason than that I love him, because I don’t have one. I didn’t exactly prepare an elaborate plan on how to convince you on my way here.”

Thomas had half been fearing that disappointed look in his eyes, but it didn’t resurface. For some reason, Washington looked almost _satisfied_ with his answer.

The king was silent for a long moment, before speaking. “I will regret this, Mr Jefferson, but you will get your audience with the prince.”

“Why?” Thomas blurted out.

Washington tilted his head. “Am I to understand that you _don’t_ want to speak to my son?” he asked, his voice carefully devoid of emotions but still intimidating, as if daring Thomas to answer in the affirmative.

Thomas shook his head vehemently. “I love Alexander. I need to talk to him and _explain_ and apologize. Nevertheless, sir, I’m curious what made you change your mind.”

Washington sighed. “Because I know how happy you made him. You aren’t good for him, but he has never glowed with as much happiness as when you were with him, and if there’s even the hint of a chance that he can be that again, God help me, I am willing to try.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

He was actually doing it. Against all possible odds—against better judgement of _the king—_ Thomas was about to meet Alexander. He would be lying if he said that the thought didn't scare him: what if Alexander didn't want to talk to him? What if he rejected him? What if the only response he got would be derisive laughter? Thomas realized that these were at the exact same concerns he had back when Alexander had first kissed him and Thomas had rejected him. It had worked out before and he had to hope that it would work out again. The stakes were exactly the same: their relationship and Thomas’ happiness.

Thomas had been escorted to one of the empty offices, this one no more pretentious than Washington's office. Thomas looked around. He fought the urge to poke the various peculiar objects around the room.

One of the double doors was opened ajar, and a man with fiery red hair, tied up in a ponytail, entered. He closed the door behind him. Only then did he turn around, familiarly violet eyes meeting Thomas’ quicksilver ones.

“Thomas…?” Alexander gasped in surprise.

Thomas winced. He gave Alexander what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hi.” He cursed his voice, which had suddenly become weak.

“What are you doing here?” Alexander’s voice became strangely empty of emotions, businesslike.

“Begging for forgiveness,” Thomas said bluntly.

Alexander snorted. “You made your feelings on me quite clear. Your feelings on all of this,” Alexander gestured around him, as if to indicate his status in general.

“And I was wrong,” Thomas said, bowing his head.

Alexander dragged a hand through his hair, causing more hair to fall from his ponytail. “Why are you here?” he asked finally.

"What can I say? Incredibly attractive people who are simultaneously giant dorks are my ultimate weakness," Thomas flashed him a grin; Alexander glared at him, distinctly unimpressed.

Alexander looked out of the window in a strange reminiscence of his father. Thomas spared a word to wonder whether it was a genetic trait or whether it was part of the royal lessons.

“I'm sorry, but I can't believe you,” Alexander said at last. “I'd love to—believe me, there's nothing that I'd love more than to believe you and forgive you without a thought—but I can't.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Thomas had expected this, but he couldn't stop his heart from sinking, just a bit.

“I understand,” he replied. “I'll try to prove myself to you,” he promised. “Will you give me a chance?”

Alexander crossed his arms. “Why should I?” he demanded. “I highly doubt that you've changed your mind.”

“I don't deserve it, but I still hope you will give me that chance.”

“You haven't answered my question,” Alexander shot back. “ _Why_ should I give you a chance, when it's obvious that you haven't changed?”

Thomas sighed. “I haven't changed my mind,” he confirmed, “but I've realized that _it doesn't really matter._ I can be an architect here as well as in the States. Besides, there's this thing called the _internet,_ ” he attempted a grin. Alexander didn't react, and the grin vanished from Thomas’ lips. “I've realized that the only thing that matters are my feelings for you,” be said frankly. “Last time, we made it work despite our political differences. Why should it matter this time?” Thomas clasped his palms together, noting absentmindedly that they were sweaty.

Alexander’s violet eyes flashed angrily. “Oh, you think you can just waltz in here like you own this and expect me to swoon like—like—”

“Like a princess in distress?” Thomas filled in, amused despite himself.

“Yes! No!” Alexander spoke, his words tumbling out one after another. He then sighed. A stray hair was freed from his ponytail, falling onto his face. Thomas stifled the itching urge to tuck it away behind his ear. “Look, I'd like to just grab your lapels and kiss you within an inch of your life but I just—I just _can't._ After this whole business, I can't just trust you like that,” he snapped his fingers loudly. “Do you have any idea how hard this has been on me? On my father? On the family? On the fucking _country_? I can't risk it happening again. I'm sorry, Thomas. I cannot afford to be selfish. Not anymore.”

Thomas wished Alexander would look him in the eye. “I don't ask you to forgive me. I don't deserve that, not after how I threw you away like a discarded toy. But let me make it up to you; let me prove myself to you, by actions, rather than words.”

 _“‘I wish it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you’,”_ Alexander quoted softly.

For the first time in the course of their conversation, he smiled. Thomas basked in that smile, mirthful and mischievous and _genuine,_ aimed at him.

Alexander sighed. “We're not _together,_ ” he clarified. “We're not a couple. But we… we can try. _You_ can try. It's not like you have much to lose,” he concluded bitterly.

Thomas had a feeling that there was a story behind that tone. He didn't prod; they were on shaky grounds as it was.

“I’m going to leave you here for now,” Alexander turned around, as if to leave. “Don’t run off. I don’t have the time or the energy to chase you around all of Buckingham.”

“One last thing, because it's frankly killing me,” Thomas said when Alexander turned to leave.

Alexander paused at the door, his fingers wrapped around the frame. He didn't turn to look at Thomas. “Yes?” he prompted tensely.

“Is this your natural hair colour?” Thomas asked bluntly.

At that, Alexander couldn't help but snicker. “Yes,” he confirmed.

“It's very… fiery,” Thomas said at last.

“Auburn-red,” Alexander corrected him. He smirked. “Oh, and Thomas?” he added. “You’ll be staying for dinner, of course? I trust you’ve met my father. I’m sure you’ll find him a very good debate partner.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Alexander had left Thomas in the office—the office of the Minister of Infrastructure, as Alexander had nonchalantly informed Thomas—to cut a ribbon or whatever other duties a prince had. He would have to read up on that if he wanted Alexander to forgive him.. He needed to understand this part of his boyfriend.

Before leaving, Alexander had extracted a promise that Thomas wouldn't wander off by himself, as Alexander really didn't have the time to look for him at Buckingham's every nook and cranny. He had also invited Thomas to dine with him and his father, a concept that, in itself, was unsettling enough that it didn't occur to Thomas to explore a literal palace. Two to three hours in close company with the King of England, with no courtesies to act as a buffer… his stomach churned. Before, Thomas had been on a clear, if hopeless, mission. Now, he had achieved simultaneously more and less than he had hoped, and he was left with an empty feeling—a kind of purposelessness. How would he go about proving himself to Alexander, especially at a family dinner?

He almost wished Alexander's stepmother the Queen would be in attendance, because cold anger, the kind that Martha Washington, was famous for, he could deal with. He found himself at a loss as to how to deal with Washington's righteous anger, so very similar to Alexander's.

It was another test, this one of Alexander’s making, of this, Thomas was certain; he was determined to pass.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

 _From: thomas_  
Step one a success. Working on step two.

 _To: thomas_  
Thomas wtf are steps 1 and 2??? This isn't a spy movie you drama queen

 _From: thomas_  
I thought we went through this?

 _To: thomas_  
I wasn't present at that conversation

 _From: thomas_  
Never mind. Step one: talk to Alexander. Step two: earn Alexander's forgiveness.

 _To: thomas_  
What's your plan?

 _From: thomas_  
For now? Surviving a dinner with Alexander's father. Wish me luck.

 _To: thomas_  
The king of england?  
... Wtf thomas  
THOMAS ANSWER ME GODDAMNIT  
DONT MAKE ME FLY OVER THERE YOU KNOW I WILL

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

At half past seven, Angelica knocked on the door to the office where Thomas had been holed up for close to seven hours. He had brought his laptop and sketchbook with him, so he didn’t mind overly; it wasn’t that he had nothing to do as much as the fact that Alexander didn’t _once_ visit him. In all probability, it was supposed to be a statement as to Thomas’ worth compared to that of Alexander’s duties. If he wanted to be in a relationship with the crown prince, he needed to understand that he would always come second.

Thomas didn’t mind. Really, he didn’t. He knew what he was getting himself into, and he would be a hypocrite if he accused Alexander of overworking himself, or being too invested in his profession.

Angelica led him through another maze of corridors. They came to a smaller door, at least by Buckingham standards, though it was still larger than reasonably feasible. Angelica knocked twice, then pushed the door open. “Your Majesties,” she addressed, and Thomas realized, excitement brewing in the pit of his stomach, that, given her choice of words, Alexander must already be inside.

The voices inside—Alexander and Washington, as Thomas had supposed—quieted when Angelica entered, Thomas trailing a step behind her.

The setting was quiet; intimate and cozy. A long dining table, with three plates set at one end. From what Thomas could remember of his mother’s etiquette lessons, Washington would sit at the head of the table, with Alexander to his right. This left Thomas the seat to the king’s left.

Quicksilver eyes met violet, the expression in Alexander’s impenetrable.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Angelica hand Washington a paper. Washington signed it with a flourish, then thanked Angelica quietly. She nodded, before abruptly making herself scarce.

Logically, Thomas knew that this moment, if not _the entire dinner,_ would be awkward, but he had found himself woefully unprepared for the reality of it. Alexander glanced between his father and Thomas, unsure as to whether it would be appropriate for him to start a conversation—not that Thomas knew what they would talk about, the three of them. With Alexander, it had been easy: the subjects flowed on their own, the rhythm of the conversation almost creating itself, the debates effortless. Of course, that was Before; Thomas was arba lots as to what they would have been able to talk about, had it only been the two of them. Maybe Washington's presence was a blessing in disguise—as long as he was there, Alexander and Thomas weren't allowed to express all too strong a familiarity with one another, and have to face the fact that it may have vanished since.

Washington finally glanced at Thomas. His expression hardened, if that was even possible. “Mr Jefferson,” he said in a tone that was carefully devoid of emotions. Looking at it, Thomas could see the familial connection between him and Alexander—they both had that ‘I'm very cross with you but for the sake of upholding my reputation, I'm not going to show it’. Thomas stifled a hysterical snicker.

Washington sat down at the head of the table. Alexander took a seat to his right. Thomas waited until the redhead sat down before following suit. He cursed himself for not having spent at least a little of his time in the afternoon on Googling up etiquette concerning royalty.

There was silence for a moment, before Alexander snorted. “Well, this is awkward.”

Thomas huffed. “You have a talent for understatement.”

Washington raised an eyebrow silently. Thomas experienced a flashback, his mind drifting back to being scolded for walking in muddied boots all over his mother’s pristine carpets. This feeling was not that different, except for how the punishment wouldn’t be going to sleep without a cookie but being exiled from the British Islands. He swallowed.

Alexander covered his mouth to hide the smirk Thomas knew was there.

“So, dad,” he began. “I spoke with Thomas. We came to an agreement of sorts.” Washington remained silent, his eyebrows indicating his skepticism—God, this man could speak volumes using only his facial expressions—and Alexander went on. “We aren’t dating. Not yet, maybe not ever.” Thomas’ stomach contracted involuntarily at those words. One glance at Washington confirmed that the man had noticed, but he didn’t comment. “I gave Thomas a chance to redeem himself. Isn’t that what you always taught me? That everyone deserves a second chance?” Alexander concluded, clearly trying to convince his father.

Washington’s expression shifted. “You forget that he isn’t on his second chance,” he pointed out. “This is his _third_ chance.”

“Don’t you think I _know_ that?” Alexander exploded unexpectedly. He sunk back in his chair, taking several deep breaths to calm himself.

Thomas watched the conversation in fascination. He felt as though he was being given the privilege of watching something precious, something very few other people saw: the true relationship of the royal family, beyond the masks and the fronts they put up. He knew that it wasn’t strictly true—Alexander was still keeping more of a distance than he did in the States—though it did beg the question of what mask he was then wearing—and he doubted that Washington could ever be caught in company without a mask of sort. Still, he enjoyed the illusion while it lasted.

“Father, what’s between Thomas and myself doesn’t concern you,” Alexander tried.

“It does when it affects the reputation and security of this nation,” Washington retorted. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t just about you anymore. It never has been.”

Thomas sensed that the subject wasn’t a new one. In all probability, they had been discussing it prior to Thomas and Angelica’s arrival.

“I hear what you're saying. Let’s shelve this for later,” Washington finally declared. Alexander glared at his father, but subsided.

Almost as if on cue, a servant walked in with what looked to be enough soup to feed an army. Thomas suddenly realized how Alexander could have gone his entire life without learning how to even make a sandwich, if this was his version of a casual dinner with family.

The servant made quick work of the soup. Thomas mimicked Alexander's actions, reasoning that here, at least, Alexander was the one with superior experience.

They didn't speak until they had finished the soup.

“So,” Thomas began awkwardly, “how was your day?” he asked Alexander.

Alexander barked a surprised laugh while Washington, in a stunning show of emotions, scowled. “I remain unimpressed with the American,” he told Alexander.

Alexander gave Washington a withering look. “You didn't like John either.”

“Because he had hurt you.”

“He had done _no such thing_!” Alexander protested.

“He broke your heart.”

“ _I broke my own fucking heart,_ ” Alexander said through gritted teeth. “  broke up with _him,_ not the other way around.”

Washington turned abruptly to Thomas. “Are you defending your ex-boyfriends the same way?” he demanded. Thomas realized that he had been caught up in a power game between the love of his life and the man he was trying to impress at all costs. No matter whose side he chose, he would lose.

“Thomas doesn't have any ex-boyfriends,” Alexander snapped. “Stop changing the subject; it didn't work when I was four, and it's _bloody well_ not going to fly now.”

“Language, Alexander,” Washington said sharply. “If you can't make your argument without resorting to expletives, you shouldn't be making it.” He then addressed Thomas, “How curious. I don't remember the States being quite _that_ conservative.”

“They're not. Unless you live in Wyoming or something, of course.”

“Do you live in Wyoming?” Washington continued idly.

“No, sir. I'm from Virginia.” Thomas wasn't quite able to keep the pride from his voice. He might not live in Virginia anymore, but _dammit,_ he loved his home state.

“Is there a particular reason you haven't been dating prior to Alexander?” Washington asked faux-casually.

“He has,” Alexander cut in. “Just not men.”

Thomas didn't know whether to hug or punch Alexander for the interruption. Physical violence wouldn't endear him to either royal, however, so he settled for nodding in acquiescence.

Washington's eyes narrowed. “Very interesting. With the greatest respect,” he spoke briskly, “I sincerely hope that Alexander isn't a gay experiment for you,” he warned, his voice bordering on threatening.

Thomas shook his head violently. “Sir, if he was, would I be here?” Thomas indicated the room at large.

Alexander huffed. “I'm not _that_ high maintenance,” he argued.

Thomas pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but it's literally a full-time job to remind you to human.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “I'll bear it in mind,” he drawled sarcastically. “I can be a responsible adult just fine, you know.”

“Alexander, _please,_ ” Thomas scoffed. “You can have an extended discussion on the differences of Boromir and Faramir’s characters and what ultimately caused the downfall of one and the survival of the other, or on the benefits and drawbacks of the gold standard, but you can't make a sandwich. I doubt that Burr was merely your bodyguard.”

Alexander looked back down at his food, poking at a potato with a huff. He didn't deign Thomas’ remark with a reply.

“Speaking of, where _is_ Burr?” Thomas asked idly.

“There are more than enough other guards at the palace that Mr Burr's presence isn't required at all times of the day, no matter how competent.” It was Washington who replied. “Now, however, with you here, I might find myself in need of his services once more.

“What do you think I’ll do? I’ll hardly _kill_ Alexander, not when I am here to win back his heart,” Thomas scoffed. “It hadn’t been easy for me, either, you know.”

Alexander snorted. “Oh, stop making that face, Jefferson, you’re _fine._ This is far more precarious a matter for me than it is for you.”

“This affects me too, you know,” Thomas’ voice sounded plaintive.

Washington looked like he was two seconds away from a snort.

“Look,” Thomas tried, “do you know what the question I'm most asked is?”

“‘Would you please leave the premises?’” Alexander shot back sarcastically.

“‘How is the prince in bed?’” Thomas ignored Alexander’s comment.

“And?” Alexander quirked an eyebrow. “How _is_ the prince in bed?” he asked sarcastically.

Thomas flushed. “You know that—this is not suitable for present company,” he stuttered, cursing his anxiety popping up at the most unexpected moments.

Washington grimaced. “There are things I do not need to know. My son’s sexual prowess is one of them,” he said, which was Washington for ‘I agree with Thomas’.

“You were saying?” Alexander returned to the topic at hand.

Thomas blanched. “All I was saying is that you’re not the only one affected by this.” Understatement of the year.

The servant from before returned. He quickly took their plates, entering with the main course. Thomas tried not to stare, but he really couldn't help it. The sheer size of those lobsters was astounding.

Alexander caught his eyes. He gestured to where Washington had begun, seeming unaware of his actions, to drum his utensils against the tabletop. Thomas stifled a snort.

They ate their meal in silence, cut only intermittently by a request to pass some dish or other. Thomas enjoyed the silence. He was able to study the two men in front of him; Alexander was stabbing the vegetables with a vigour, while Washington looked pensive. Of the two, Thomas preferred Alexander’s anger.

“Incidentally, Alexander, don’t forget about the charity ball overmorrow,” Washington reminded once he had finished. He seemed to be content to once again ignore Thomas. This was fine by the man in question.

Thomas turned to Alexander. “A charity ball?” he echoed.

Alexander nodded. “There’s a charity ball where we’re going to be raising money for children in orphanages. You’re invited, of course, if you want to attend. There’s no point in having you here if you won’t get a taste of what you want to sign up for, after all,” he said easily. Washington shot Alexander a glower at his words, but the topic wasn’t important enough to argue.

Thomas hummed thoughtfully, his mind already a mile away.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Alexander prodded, correctly interpreting Thomas’ expression.

Thomas shrugged. “Just thinking about clothing choices. May I suggest that you wear black to the ball?”

“Noted,” Alexander told him cheerfully. “And overridden. I can pick out my own wardrobe, for Lord's sake.”

Thomas snorted in disbelief.

“I _do,_ ” Alexander insisted. “But it doesn't matter. I have a fashion advisor. I don’t need your help.”

“You may not need it, but will you accept it?”

Alexander considered this. He tilted his head. “I get the final say,” he warned.

Thomas suppressed a smirk. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of forcing you to wear something not to your liking.”

Alexander scrunched up his nose. “If you’re going to get nasty, I’m going to leave,” he made as if to stand up.

“Wait for the pudding,” Washington stayed Alexander with nothing but a slight movement of his hand. Thomas wished he had that kind of power. He loved Alexander beyond belief, but he was also quite a handful.

“Pudding?” Thomas started. “Why would you? It's… slimy,” he said delicately.

Alexander snorted. “‘Pudding’ means dessert over here, you heathen,” he taunted.

“Says the person who calls dessert ‘pudding’ in the first place,” Thomas retorted. “What's for dessert, anyway?”

Was it Thomas’ imagination or did Washington actually _smirk_? “Banoffee pie,” Washington said curtly.

Alexander’s expression became conspicuously unreadable. “Banoffee pie?” he echoed. Thomas couldn't identify the emotion in his voice. He resisted the urge to squirm.

Washington smiled at Thomas. “You _must_ try the banoffee pie.” Like his every other expression, it was nothing short of terrifying. Still, his teeth were bared in what was probably supposed to be a smile. It was weird, Thomas, reflected. Alexander had a beautiful smile. Either Washington was a genetic anomaly, or he had skipped out on the smiling lessons in his youth.

 _Or he smiles like that on purpose,_ a voice in his head murmured. _He doesn't approve of you, and sees no need to make an effort to be polite to you._

Thomas has never had banoffee pie. Besides, he couldn't exactly _refuse_ George Washington, the King of England, and _Alexander's father._

“I'd be honored,” he forced a smile.

Washington's smile was downright predatory now. Alexander blinked. “That is a very brave proposal.”

Never has a sentence sounded more ominous.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“His Royal Highness Prince George James Alexander Washington, duke of Scotland, heir apparent to the British throne,” the announcer declared.

Thomas turned to look at the entrance, as did the rest of the room. There was Alexander, as resplendent as Thomas has ever seen him, dressed in a green suit that somehow complimented both his hair and his eyes, a feat Thomas had thought impossible. He couldn't help but stare as Alexander descended the stairs, nodding at and shaking hands with various important-looking individuals. Probably foreign diplomats, if Thomas had to guess.

In one word, Alexander looked _regal._ Thomas’ mouth watered. He stamped down the urge to just step up to Alexander and kiss him two seconds from fainting; even if they _were_ dating again, there was probably a rule somewhere in the Royal Book of Unnecessary Traditions that one simply did not do things like that.

Thomas couldn’t help the feeling of inadequacy that crept up on him as he compared himself with Alexander and found himself lacking. The feeling was almost _crippling,_ taking the breath out of Thomas’ lungs. Whatever he did, whatever he tried to do, Alexander could outdo him Alexander had opportunities Thomas couldn’t even dream of, and he didn’t waste them. He was intelligent beyond belief, more gorgeous than any other man Thomas had ever seen, and could charm anyone into doing anything; in fact, he _did_ charm Thomas into falling in love with him—Thomas, who was as straight as one got. Thomas wrote an article—Alexander wrote a book. Thomas got the waitress’ phone number—Alexander had her apartment key. Thomas spoke Latin—Alexander also spoke Hebrew. Thomas didn’t hold a candle against Alexander. It did sting a little—Thomas was too proud of his achievements for it not to—but he minded it less than he probably should.

Alexander eventually made his way to Thomas. “Good evening, Mr Jefferson,” he said formally.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” Thomas returned in kind.

At that, Alexander couldn't hold back a short laugh, dispelling the air of formality around him. Thomas felt his shyness melt away. “How are you doing, Daenerys Targaryen of Britain?” Thomas smirked.

“Fuck you,” Alexander told him.

Thomas shrugged unabashedly. “What can I say? You even had _platina blond hair_ when I met you. Your eyes are violet, for God’s sake. You have more titles than the Mother of Dragons.”

Alexander smiled despite himself. “The hair colour choice was entirely incidental, I assure you.” His smile fell when he spotted someone behind Thomas, but he didn't quite frown, either.

“What is it?” Thomas wanted to turn around but knew that him doing so would draw too much attention to them.

Alexander bit his lip. “That's Crown Princess Victoria of Sweden,” he told him. “I hadn't known she would be in attendance today,” he admitted, “but it's a welcome surprise.”

“An acquaintance of yours?” Thomas inquired faux-lightly, fighting the jealousy.

He hadn't been aware that he was digging his nails into his palms until Alexander slapped his hand with admonishment. The redhead grabbed one of Thomas’ hand, turning them so that his palms were facing up. Thomas wrenched away his hand, glancing away briefly. His eyes met those of a brown-haired woman, dressed in a simple blue dress, talking to a bespectacled man who looked quite out of his element (Thomas sympathized). He realized with a start that the woman must be the Princess Victoria.

“A childhood friend,” Alexander told him, a smile still on his lips. “We used to be playmates when we were young.”

Thomas had a hard time imagining Alexander being able to share his toys with anyone, even Swedish royalty, but he nodded. “Feel like talking to her?”

“It doesn't matter whether I feel like it or not,” Alexander said, face once again unreadable. Thomas mentally dubbed it his royal mask.

Princess Victoria suddenly materialized at Thomas’ shoulder, sans date. Thomas resisted glancing around the room, curious as to where she had ditched her date. “Good evening, Prince Alexander,” she spoke, politeness oozing through her every word.

“Whether it will be good remains to be seen,” Alexander said with a small scoff, and Thomas started. He hadn't been expecting Alexander to be so frank with a foreign dignitary.

Victoria, on the other hand, didn't look at all surprised. She laughed. “You always know how to liven up a party, don't you?”

“I'm going to take that as a compliment. Have you met Thomas yet?” he changed the subject unexpectedly.

Victoria shook her head. “No, I haven't had the pleasure yet,” she smiled. Thomas instinctively hated that smile. “Victoria Bernadotte of Sweden.”

“Thomas Jefferson. Of Virginia, I guess,” Thomas said smoothly, shaking the proffered hand. He hated how awkward his words sounded to his own ears.

Victoria grinned again. It seemed to be a thing she was doing a lot. “He’s a real charmer, Alexander,” she stated. “You’re lucky, you know.”

Thomas didn’t know whether she was addressing him or Alexander, so he settled for nodding.

“Speaking of lucky,” Alexander hummed, “where did you leave your husband?”

So she did have a husband. Thomas wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he did feel a moment of relief.

“He’s over there with my sister,” Victoria said. “He doesn’t look to be having a lot of fun. Not his climate, so to speak.”

Alexander pursed his lips. “These balls are an acquired taste, I admit.”

“Is that what you’re doing with Mr Jefferson?” Victoria asked shrewdly. “Testing whether he has the taste for these matters?”

Alexander blinked. “I always hated it when you did that,” he commented. “It was a pain to hide anything from you as kids.”

Victoria shrugged. “I grew up with two younger siblings. You get used to spotting lies pretty quickly after that. Also, you're avoiding my question.”

Thomas expected Alexander to ramble on about their relationship and how Thomas was trying to make up for the shit he's done, but, strangely, Alexander merely smiled and told Victoria that it concerned nobody but Thomas and himself. Victoria nodded m “I see,” she replied shortly. “Well, it seems that I need to rescue my husband from the wretched clutches of Ambassador Arnold.”

Thomas gave her a bland smile as she left. Alexander was content to observe the crowd in silence for a moment.

“You know, I never could figure out why you had Rowling on speed dial,” Thomas said slowly, still sounding a bit shaken. “But after meeting the _princess of Sweden,_ I think I understand.”

Alexander shrugged. “Jo and I exchange writing tips.”

“You excha—” Thomas shook his head. “You being royalty, I can believe. You exchanging _writing tips_ with J. K. Rowling, like you’re on the same level, is—” _Unbelievable,_ Thomas wanted to say, but that wasn't quite right either.

“True,” Alexander butted in. He got a mischievous glint in his eye. It never boded well. The last time Thomas saw it was just before they kissed. “Who do you think wrote _The Broken Empire Trilogy_?”

“Mark Lawrence,” Thomas deadpanned.

“Wrong,” Alexander said smugly. “Or, well, _right,_ but still wrong. It was my pseudonym.”

“You’re the crown prince of the United Kingdom, and you still have the time to write a bestselling trilogy?” Thomas sounded more than a little disbelieving. “Then again, I _should_ have seen this coming.”

“Oh, look,” Alexander said distractedly. “There's Lafayette.”

“Lafayette?” Thomas echoed, staring off into the crowd as if he would be able to identify the man Alexander was referring to by repeating his name enough.

“The Marquis de Lafayette,” Alexander clarified.

Thomas quirked an eyebrow. “Another childhood friend?”

“More like a brother. Dad fostered him for seven years.”

“Should I prepare myself for the shovel talk?”

Alexander shrugged. “Probably. Lafayette is under the illusion that I can't take of myself.”

“I can’t imagine where he got that impression,” Thomas drawled.

“And that right there,” Alexander pointed a finger at him accusingly, “is why I won’t stop him.”

 _Love you too, weirdo._ The words were stuck in Thomas’ throat, trying to claw their way into existence. Thomas choked on them.

A redhead made his way towards them. He was dressed in a deep blue tuxedo, elaborate without seeming pretentious. Thomas was loathe to admit it, but he was handsome.

If Thomas didn't know that Lafayette wasn't related to either Alexander or Washington, he'd assume that the Frenchman was Alexander's brother. The two were practically identical, down to the exact same shade of their hair. Really, the only difference he saw was in Lafayette’s eyes, which were blue. It was unsettling.

“Alexander,” the redhead said, offering his hand for Alexander to shake.

“Lafayette,” Alexander returned. “ _C’est un plaisir, comme toujours._ ”

“And who is _this_?” Lafayette indicated Thomas with a sharp nod of his head, though, judging by his tone, Thomas suspected that he already knew the answer.

“Thomas, this is Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette,” Alexander said in one breath. “Lafayette, this is Thomas Jefferson, my friend from America.”

“Friend?” Lafayette echoed. “Is that how you call your amours these days?” He then shook his head, eyes narrowing as he turned to Thomas. “So you're the American cookie,” Lafayette said bluntly, a frown on his face.

Thomas blinked. “Cookie?”

“Lafayette has odd affection phrases,” Alexander explained.

Thomas rubbed his temples. “I'm gonna need a lot of Xanax.”

Lafayette's frown turned abruptly into a  smile. It would have been a beautiful smile, except for how it was _just a little too wide_ —like the smile of a shark before devouring its prey. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Jefferson,” he said, voice deceptively casual.

Thomas could imagine the kind of rumours then Frenchman had heard. He didn’t react. “I can’t say the same,” he replied flatly.

Lafayette’s eyes narrowed. “It’s just as well.”

Alexander huffed in annoyance. “You’re two of my closest friends, the people most dear to me. Make an effort not to kill each other.”

“Who said anything about death?” Lafayette gasped innocently.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “ _Je te connais, Gilbert._ Now, if you’ll forgive me, there's a gentleman I need to talk to,” Alexander excused himself, once again full of seemingly indefatigable energy.

Thomas watched him leave, feeling oddly as if he was being thrown at the mercy of a ravenous lion.

Lafayette turned to face Thomas, expression fixed. “I need to talk to you.”

“Is this the part where you tell me that if I break Alexander’s heart,” Thomas intoned, “you’re going to order the French version of the Secret Service to take me out in the quietest way possible?”

Lafayette shook his head. “No, because you’ve already broken my lion’s heart twice. It would be, ah, _futile._ You seem to have understood it, anyway. Instead, I will simply tell you that, should you choose to pursue to gain Alexander’s favour and even _accidentally_ do anything to hurt him, my assistant has found some sketchy designs of yours. There are… how do you say? There’s quite a few cut corners in your designs for the buildings you create. I cannot imagine your clients would be very happy about that.”

Thomas stilled. “You wouldn’t dare,” he spluttered.

Lafayette smiled again. His smile was as terrifying as Washington’s had ever been. “I assure you: I will. Have we fallen into an understanding?” Thomas nodded mechanically. “ _Ça me rend très heureux._ Now, pardon me. I need to talk to the baron,” he said curtly, before vanishing in the crowd.

No sooner did Lafayette disappear, moving between people as if there was a current only he could see and navigate, weaving between the people with an ease Thomas envied, than Alexander appeared at Thomas’ shoulder. “What did you discuss?” he asked curiously.

“Nothing of importance,” Thomas dismissed.

Alexander's eyes sparkled with mischief. “So he _did_ give you the shovel talk,” he said gleefully.

Thomas’ expression was clouded. “You have a very protective brother.”

“What _did_ he threaten you with?” Alexander prodded. “Dismemberment? _Decapitation_?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You know, I _will_ find out eventually,” Alexander coaxed. “Lafayette doesn’t keep secrets from me,” he drawled, his accent more pronounced the more annoyed he became. It was captivating.

“Somehow, I imagine this one will be different,” Thomas remarked.

Alexander scrunched up his nose. “Spoilsport,” he teased, grinning. “Anyway, come. There's someone I want you to meet.”

“As long as it's not another foreign nobility,” Thomas grunted.

Alexander chuckled, the laughter showing off his white teeth. Thomas just about melted. “That depends on how you look at it,” he said cryptically.

Alexander looked around. He closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. Thomas furrowed his brows. “Do you need a moment?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” Alexander said gratefully. “Let’s get out of here.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

As soon as the door closed behind them, it was as if Alexander had undergone a transformation before Thomas' very eyes. His polite mask fell, and a smile bloomed up in its place. Laughing, he intertwined his fingers in Thomas', and tugged on Thomas' hand. Thomas followed Alexander, his curiosity peaked. They ran down the hallways and out into the gardens, coming to a stop next to a great oak tree and giggling like a pair of teenagers about to drink the last of their parents' abandoned alcohol.

“What’s the hurry?” Thomas asked with mirth, still out of breath. Out of habit, he tucked a stray hair out of Alexander’s eyes. He heard Alexander’s breath hitch.

“No hurry,” Alexander replied. “I just don’t like crowds that much.”

“Really?” Thomas inquired, puzzled. “But you seemed to be right in your element back there. Talking to people and… socializing,” he finished awkwardly.

Alexander snorted. “When you’ve grown up the way I have, you get used to it. The hordes of people, the incessant talking and talking, never saying anything. Doesn’t mean that I have to like it,” he grimaced. “I like to be able to say what’s on my mind instead of sugar coating it behind three layers of Caribbean-imported sweets.”

“I don’t like crowds either,” Thomas blurted out, at a loss for words. “But you know that already.”

Alexander squeezed his hand. “Yes, and I appreciate you accompanying me here tonight. It made this whole mess bearable.”

“I thought you enjoyed talking to the princess? And your French marquis?”

“I do,” Alexander said with a sigh. “Victoria and I have grown up with very similar expectations placed upon us more or less since birth, and Lafayette’s the only person in whom I feel like I can confide anything.” Thomas refused to be hurt by the fact that he wasn’t, apparently, included in that group. He wouldn’t trust himself either, if he was in Alexander’s position. The prince was giving Thomas more benefit of the doubt than Thomas would, had the positions been reversed. “But functions like these… They’re stifling. Takes all the fun out of meeting them, especially when I know that I only meet Victoria at these events. At least Lafayette drops by every now and again. Besides, two friendly people cannot make up for an entire roomful of suspicious dignitaries who stare at you the second they think you aren’t looking. As if me dating a man is an irreparable scandal,” he huffed. “As if I might be a worse monarch for that. That’s _bullshit._ ”

Thomas furrowed his brows in concern. "They might be right," he said slowly. "Not about the 'you're a worse king because you're bisexual' thing," he hurried to assure Alexander at his stormy expression, "but with the whole 'your reputation will suffer' thing. I don't want to be the scandal that does you in. Especially not now that I've seen how much you genuinely love your people. You attend events you _hate_ for them, for God's sake. I don't want to risk that."

He made as if to pull away, but Alexander tightened his grip on the other's hand. "Don't," he hissed. "You're not a secret to be hidden away. You're not my shameful lover. You’re the love of my life, and I want to be with you.”

Thomas groaned, even as his insides warmed at Alexander’s words. “Weren’t you the one to tell me that it’s not all about you anymore? There are more important things at play here, your country being the first of them. Or have you forgotten already?” he taunted.

“I haven’t,” Alexander scoffed. “But I’ve decided to take a leaf out of _your_ book: enjoy life for once. Do what I want, not what everyone else wants me to do. And what _I_ want is you. Not any trophy wife. Not any ‘politically beneficial’ marriage my father might ask me to consider. _You._ ”

“But your reputation—”

“To hell with my reputation,” Alexander cut Thomas off brusquely. “The people who would judge me for being with a man are the same people who are already critical of me and my outspoken opinions. If I want to be with my boyfriend, I bloody well will be.”

They were mere inches away. Alexander's breath ghosted on Thomas’ lips.

“But I thought we weren't—”

“Shut up and kiss me, you twat,” Alexander snapped, and how was Thomas supposed to argue with _that_?

The kiss wasn't sweet. It was longing and desperation and weeks of pining all mixed into one, emotions riding high and swirling together. It was intense and ardent, leaving Thomas struggling to distinguish where he ended and Alexander began.

“And you know what else?” Alexander asked, almost gasping for breath as they finally broke apart.

“What?” Thomas asked, unable to keep from smiling as he stared down at his boyfriend. Did he ever _stop_ talking?

“Theresa May can go kiss my ass.”

“I would really prefer it if she didn’t,” Thomas sniped. “And I can’t be doing that good a job here if you can still think about Theresa May.”

Alexander punched Thomas’ shoulder lightly with the hand not already cradling Thomas’. “You’re an annoying asshole, did anyone ever tell you that?” he asked.

“You have,” Thomas grinned. “On multiple occasions.”

Alexander sniffed, looking quite put-out. Thomas snorted. What a drama queen.

“Hush,” Alexander grumbled, and Thomas couldn’t help but think it was the most precious sight he had ever laid his eyes on.

“You  know, this party really is turning out better than I expected,” he said instead, voice erratic. “And if that was what you wanted to show me, I’m up for more.”

Alexander’s smile. “No, it wasn't, but I just might take you up on that offer later.” He tugged on Thomas’ arm again. “Well?” he challenged, a glint in his eyes. “Are you coming?”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“Now, these,” Alexander said as he led Thomas to three of what had to be the most beautiful horses Thomas had ever seen, “are my babies. Thomas, meet Aemon, Postlethwayt, and Horsey McHorseface.”

Thomas didn’t even bother suppressing the cackle that bubbled up in his throat. “ _What_?” he managed disbelievingly, his face turning red as he continued to laugh.

Alexander just narrowed his eyes. “Horsey McHorseface, Aemon, and Postlethwayt,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dumb child.

Thomas’ laughter picked up again. “You named your horse _Horsey_ _McHorseface_? The future _king of England_ has a horse named _Horsey McHorseface_!”

Alexander huffed indignantly. “I got him when I was seven, alright?” he said, his voice narrowly missing the ‘whiny’ category. “He was my first horse, and when father brought me out here, I looked at him and said, ‘Wow, look at that horse. That’s a very horsey horse. It has a particularly horsey face’, so I named him Horsey McHorseface.” He absentmindedly patted the grey torso.

Thomas kept laughing. “That—that is _amazing._ My God,” he gasped between bouts of laughter.

“I was _seven,_ Thomas!” Alexander heaved an exasperated sigh. “Let me live.”

Thomas stifled another bout of laughter. “Okay, so this over is Horsey McHorseface. What about the others over there?” he gestured at the remaining two horses. The white horse was eating, while the brown horse kept nudging the white one, trying to get its attention.

“I already told you.”

“Well, tell me again.”

“You should have listened the first time around.”

“And _you_ shouldn’t have begun the introduction with Horsey,” Thomas retaliated. “Now introduce me to the rest.”

Alexander scrunched his nose. “You’re a dick. Also, the handsome beast over here is Postlethwayt,” he gestured at the brown horse, who looked up mid-poke and neighed. “And this beauty”—Alexander moved on, pointing to the white horse, who ignored him—“is Aemon. She’s the youngest of the three. I actually bought her as a foal and trained her myself,” he said, a no small amount of pride in his voice.

Thomas blinked. “I should be surprised that you named a mare after a male fictional character, but honestly, I’m still reeling from Horsey McHorseface,” he admitted.

Alexander’s smile widened as he ran his fingers through Aemon’s mane, resulting in a content bray. “Yes, girl, aren’t you gorgeous?” he murmured gently. “This is Thomas Jefferson,” Alexander told her. “He’s my partner.”

Thomas blinked. “You’re not actually introducing me to the horse, are you?” he asked dubiously.

Alexander sniffed. “You asked to be introduced. Well, I’m introducing you. Don’t whine.”

“I didn’t expect—”

“Introductions go both ways, don’t they?” Alexander pointed out. “You got their names, and they got yours. Now, do you want to pet Aemon?” he invited abruptly.

Thomas hesitated. “I’m not sure—”

He was cut off when, without further ado, Alexander yanked the hand he was holding pressed it gently against Aemon’s neck. Thomas’ fingers clenched automatically into a fist around some of Aemon’s mane. “She’s soft,” he admitted.

Alexander’s smile was pensive. “I know.” On impulse, Alexander grabbed Thomas’ hand again, resulting in a yelp, and dragged him off in the direction of the stables.

“I can walk by myself, you know. You don't need to drag me everywhere,” Thomas grouched, but let himself be led away. “What are you thinking?”

“How good are your horseback riding skills?” Alexander returned, a mischievous tilt to his head.

Thomas’ eyes widened. “You can't be serious!” he exclaimed. “For one, it's _dark._ As in, I can't even see past the tip of my nose. I'll probably ride into a tree or something. Second, it's insanely _dangerous_ and your father would have my hide if he found out I let you ride off into a dark forest like an oblivious princess at the beginning of a Disney movie. And third, isn't there a party you have to at—”

His words were muffled into an illegible mumble as Alexander clamped his palm on Thomas’ lips, eyes glowering. “By all means, please shout away,” Alexander hissed. “I’m sure the _entire_ castle know we're here yet.”

“Speaking of, where are the guards?” Thomas felt the need to ask. “This looks like a huge flaw in your security system—one of the kind a Bond villain hell-bent on world domination would exploit.”

Alexander shrugged. “I've grown up here. Don't you think I haven't learned how to evade the guards by now?” he drawled.

“That was oddly vague. Not the least bit worrying,” Thomas deadpanned. “We are still wearing our suits,” he reminded.

“We have dry cleaners.” Alexander wordlessly found a pair of saddles. He handed one to Thomas unceremoniously. “Here, take this. You’re going to ride Postlethwayt,” Alexander told him. “He needs the exercise, anyway.”

Thomas stared. “You’re not actually serious about this, are you?”

“Deadly,” Alexander said seriously. “The gardens are beautiful at night. Now come on.”

Alexander saddled Aemon with an ease that bespoke of years of practice, while Thomas fumbled with the straps in the dark. Alexander finally put Thomas out of his misery and tied up the few remaining straps while Postlethwayt stood still, patiently waiting for Alexander to finish. Once done, Alexander mounted Aemon and, without waiting for Thomas, took off, leaving Thomas scrambling to catch up.

Thomas drew level with Alexander at the edge of the pond. “That was uncalled for.”

“But fun,” Alexander smirked. “Besides, you’re a decent enough rider that I knew you’d catch up. Eventually,” he added.

Thomas sighed. He glanced around, taking in the surroundings—or what he could see of them. The moon was visible, the clouds having temporarily disappeared, and its reflection glittered in the tranquil water surface. The garden itself was calm and quiet, and there was something almost _soothing_ about it.

“I love it,” Alexander said quietly, his eyes distant as if looking into a great distance. “It’s peaceful. It’s almost a world of its own.” Aemon neighed in agreement, and Alexander tugged on the bridle. “I know, dear. We don’t get a chance to do this very often. I hate it too.”

Thomas looked out. His eyes caught on the an object a little ways off. There, just on the edge of the forest, was a lampion. An honest to God, traditional Chinese lampion. Thomas didn’t think these things actually existed outside of festivals.

“You couldn’t get more clichéd if you tried,” Thomas said dryly. “Are we in a fucking fairy tale?”

Alexander shrugged. “You’re free to leave. But I’d rather you didn’t.”

“You massive _dork_ ,” Thomas’ voice was affectionate, his tone belying his words.

“You love me anyway.” One of Alexander’s hands reached for Thomas’, fingers twisting and coiling around one another.

Thomas stroked the centre of Alexander’s palm. “God help me, I do,” he admitted.

Alexander grinned like Christmas had come in June. “Who’s the dork now, huh?”

“Still you,” Thomas replied.

There was a warm feeling crawling its way up Thomas’ stomach. It settled in his throat, tingling pleasantly. Thomas found that he couldn’t speak properly—almost as if he was choking on air, except he _wasn’t._ All he could do was grin stupidly, happy beyond description that Alexander was his and his only. Out of every person on this planet, Alexander was choosing _him._ It was empowering. It was the sort of contentment one could only find once in their lifetime. It was bliss.

“So,” Thomas began conversationally, “Horsey McHorseface, I can understand. Even Aemon, who was, presumably, named after either Aemon the Dragonknight or Maester Aemon,” he glanced at Alexander for affirmation.

“Maester Aemon,” Alexander confirmed. “I felt that he was an important character, and frequently overlooked.”

“Of course,” Thomas snorted. He tapped the horse he was riding. “And this one?”

“That's Postlethwayt,” Alexander said simply, as if the mere word sufficed as explanation.

Thomas blinked. “Pasle-what?” he echoed.

Alexander stared at Thomas, disbelief written all over his features. “How can you _not_ know who Malachy Postlethwayt was? He was only _the_ greatest mathematician of all time, the ablest master of political arithmetic. He correctly conjectured, two hundred and fifty years ago, a mixed economy in which the government would both steer business activity and free individual energy.”

“Yeah, but what did he _do_?” Thomas prompted.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “He wrote _The_ _Universal Dictionary of Trade and Commerce_ , the single best book about international commerce in existence.”

“So he was a merchant,” Thomas said slowly. “That doesn’t make him—”

“You don’t _understand,_ ” Alexander insisted, his tone more passionate by the word. “He was a genius far ahead of his time, outlining policies that wouldn’t be possible until _two centuries later._ He was the da Vinci of economics.”

Thomas smirked. “Methinks someone has a _cru-ush,_ ” he sing-songed.

Alexander glowered. “Just because I am capable of acknowledging the genius of others doesn’t mean that I have a crush on an old, white mathematician,” he grumbled.

Thomas snorted. “You don’t get to pull the ‘old white guy’ card. You _are_ white,” he pointed out.

Alexander blinked. “I am, aren’t I?” he glanced down at his hands, as if only realizing the fact. “I keep forgetting.”

“How can you _forget_ that? I can hardly just _forget_ that I’m black,” Thomas chided.

“I can forget _because_ I’m white,” Alexander shrugged offhandedly, then went on, acting as if he hadn’t just acknowledged one of the most frustrating injustices in society. He could afford to forget his race; Thomas was constantly reminded of the fact that, had he been born two centuries ago, his skin would have guaranteed that he wouldn’t have had the kind of freedom he had in the modern day and age—or any freedom at all, really. What a difference two steps on the Fitzpatrick Scale could make. “Anyway, I don’t have a crush on Postlethwayt.”

“Then what _is_ it about this book?” Thomas pressed.

Alexander glanced away. His eyes zeroed in on the horseshoe hanging on one of the branches, and _really,_ whoever did the outdoor decorating for this garden ought to have been fired. “It’s a very useful book, is all,” he said evasively, twirling one of Aemon’s hairs around his finger. “I’ve had it since I was a kid. It was the first book I ever read, actually,” he admitted.

“You got it from your mother?” Thomas guessed. From the look on Alexander’s face, he deduced that he had been right.

“It had been one of the few books she had kept after moving to Europe. She used to read it to me as a bedside story.” Alexander still wouldn’t meet Thomas’ eyes. “It serves me as a reminder of her.” Alexander shook his head as he looked back at Thomas, who swallowed.

“Well,” Alexander finally said, “I think we’ve been here for long enough. They’re probably starting to notice our absence.”

Thomas snorted, because who was Alexander trying to convince? He was the _crown prince,_ his absence would have been noted as soon as the door closed. He dreaded the conversation with Washington he knew would come. “Let’s head back,” he agreed.

Alexander smirked. “Race you to the stable,” he hollered before taking off, coaxing Aemon into gallop.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧ 

> _THOMAS JEFFERSON SPOTTED AT BUCKINGHAM. LOVERS REUNITED AT LAST?_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

The conversation with Washington had been both exactly as excruciating as Thomas had imagined, and not. Washington’s intimidating look followed him for a long time after stepping out of the quaint office. Washington’s words reverberated in his head. _‘Alexander has always done what he wanted. I doubt even you could have stopped him. He’s an adult, and he needs to start acting like it. But you didn’t help matters any, Mr Jefferson. In fact, your presence was a trigger. It would do you well to remember that you are here at my leisure, and, should you want to stay that way, I suggest you stop encouraging Alexander’s recklessness.’_

Tentatively, Thomas and Alexander began dating. This time, Alexander was showing caution, which Thomas and Washington both appreciated; throwing themselves head-first into a relationship was what got them in trouble in the first place.

Alexander and Thomas spent a lot of their time talking. Not the way they used to, their discussions no longer filled to the brim with politics and philosophical thoughts and obscure book references, but about practical matters. Would they manage to lead separate lives while being a part of the other’s daily routine? Neither was willing to give up their job and dreams for the other, which, after Thomas had given it good thought, was probably a good sign. Any relationship where one of the people involved had to renounce an essential part of who they were wasn’t going to work out, no matter the effort. These predicaments, which seemed insignificant at first glance and insurmountable at second, proved to be conquerable if they both put their minds to it. It was astonishing what the two could accomplish if they worked together.

It took them a surprisingly short time to settle on a course of action that satisfied them both. The final plan was that Thomas would spend a month in the States, scheduling his clients in one fell swoop, then return to Europe for three months and work via his computer, keeping his clients updated via the internet. _Lather, rinse, repeat._

It wasn't perfect, but it was the best idea they were able to come up with, and it would hold up to criticism from the far right that taxpayers’ money was being wasted because it wasn’t as if Thomas wouldn’t be able to afford his own damn tickets.

The month apart would be doing them a lot of good. They were their own people, and it wouldn’t do to get too caught up in each other and forget that.

They also talked about their feelings for each other. It had actually been James’ idea, but Thomas had rapidly warmed up to it. Even though Thomas had an inkling of the way Alexander felt for him, it was good to have the reassurance of tangible words, straight from Alexander’s lips. Thomas offered the same in return. Knowing where they stood with each other was a good foundation for what Thomas hoped would be a long relationship.

The first time Thomas met Burr after arriving in England, the bodyguard had pulled him aside and given him not so much a shovel _talk_ as a shovel _glare._ Thomas hadn’t known that one could communicate so much through a single look, but Burr continued to surprise him. His lips curled up into a mockery of a smile. After coming face-to-face with George Washington, Aaron Burr didn’t scare Thomas. Compared to the king, Burr was a trigger-happy puppy. Seeing that his attempt at intimidation had accomplished nothing, Burr had simply left, not so much as another glare in Thomas’ direction. Thomas’ internal scoreboard pinged. _Burr: 6; Thomas: 3.  
_

Thomas’ daily chit-chats with Washington gradually turned friendlier—Thomas liked to think that it was his charming personality that won Washington over—and, three weeks in, Thomas caught himself almost _looking forward_ to them. Washington had taken to sharing small tidbits from Alexander’s childhood that had Thomas in snickers.

Thomas smiled. He didn’t know what the future would bring. Maybe they would work out, or maybe they wouldn’t. All he could do was wait and see, hoping for the best, and make the choice, every day, to see the future he envisioned in his mind come to fruition. A future with him at Alexander’s side, and Alexander at his.

Love was a choice, and he was choosing Alexander.

**Author's Note:**

> To Be Continued.
> 
> No, seriously, there's more stuff that needs to be written here, but here felt like a good place to cut it for now.
> 
> Congratulations! You made it to the end! Tell me what you thought! Is there anything you want to see more of in the next installment?


End file.
